A Forced Hand
by thein273
Summary: After being forced to take a mortal's life in self-defense, Percy Jackson is left to contend with his own inner guilt, the demands of the media, and the disapproving glares of the rumor mill. Accused of premeditated murder despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Percy's sanity is stretched past the breaking point. READ THE WARNING AT THE BEGINNING! This may be triggering.
1. Part I

_Rating: M_

**_Warning_**_: This story was written with the intention to explore the psyche of a popular fictional character in the events of a forced killing. The scenes contained are graphic, and will get increasingly so as the tale progresses. Vivid depictions of self-harm are included starting_ Part II, _and they are written by someone who knows first-hand what it is like. This is my way of coping with my own personal trauma, and anyone with pasts of cutting, eating disorders, pill-taking, or other self-destructive behaviors may experience relapses if they choose to read this. Individuals troubled by blood are _**strongly**_ recommended to seek entertainment elsewhere. This is a long, in-depth six-parter that will not be hastily written and posted. I have written this over the course of a year, before, during, and after_ The House of Hades _was released. Parts will be canon-divergent, but I maintain key components that will spoil the fourth installment of _The Heroes of Olympus, _so readers who do not want spoilers are advised to look elsewhere._

_If any of you are struggling with emotional trauma and/or self-destructive behaviors, please PM me. I will be uncannily prompt if I have someone asking me for help, and I can swear that I will listen and offer advice and help only when it is asked for. I am not a psychiatrist; I'm not here to judge or condemn you. I have the word "Hope" permanently scarred onto my arm from the same behavior, and such things would be unforgivably hypocritical._

_In the fourth and fifth parts of this narrative, there is very light homosexual interactions and kissing. If you are troubled by such displays of like-gender affection, get the hell away from my writing this instant and don't you _dare _think about trying again. I like to consider myself an understanding and open-minded soul, but when bigots try to impose their uneducated beliefs on the rest of us, I have no patience. Go now, unless you want to be completely ridiculed and demeaned with no small lack of tact. For those of you not opposed to it, I do apologize for inevitably breaking them apart—they are two characters that, although temporary infatuation in actually conceivable, would never make a successful partnership in the long-run—but I promise there will be a happy-ending for both parties involved before this story is over._

* * *

**All rights go to Rick Riordan, Hyperion Books Publishing Co., and any other respective owners referenced throughout this story. It is a non-profit story meant to inspire thought and precipitate healing. My well-wishes to any struggling through any of these issues, and prayers to your faith that you may find an anchor amidst an ocean of madness.**

* * *

_This is dedicated to the best friend who has been there for me as I have struggled with self-worth and the will to live, even as she endures far worse trials than I ever dreamed of. And to the girl who saw my arm and robbed me of my scissors, gave me a place to stay for 24 hour Suicide Watch, and has steadfastly been the rock of constancy in my own turbulent waters. And to the numerous friends besides who have never let me fall too far without catching me as a unit and pushing my head back above water. To my Si Gong who taught me to tread the waters of hopelessness into the Pacific. To my year-long crush, who doesn't know it but single-handedly stayed my hand the night I had planned to kill myself._

_I am alive to write this because of all of you._

* * *

**A Forced Hand**

_Part I_

_"Murder begins where self-defense ends." - Georg Buchner_

I fold my hands in my lap, shifting anxiously on the hard wood of the chair, and stare at the wall opposite me. A crushed paper cup is in my left hand, tucked under my right, a digital watch on my wrist. Around my neck, a comforting necklace with six beads rests on my collarbone, a promise ring dangling beside them. Unwashed and scraggly, my hair hangs over my face, obscuring my vision and tainting it ink-black. My face is gaunt and my waist is narrow, sunken bags under my hollow eyes accentuating my pale sleeplessness. My light blue polo shirt and dark blue dress pants are wrinkled. My lips are cracked despite the water I just drank. I feel dead and meaningless, like a spirit floating through the world.

The small child beside me, barely eight years old, looks at me with unconstrained happiness, her frilly lace dress and stuffed tiger giving her the adorable little girl look so at home on the movie screen, and yet so sickeningly out of place in a courthouse. "Why are you here?" she asks with a bashful giggle. "My mommy brought me here to help Uncle Karl go into recovery."

For a second, I don't answer her. People in crisp suits with suitcases pass me, and out of a courtroom, an unsavory man emerges in handcuffs as a mob of reporters swarm him. I sympathize, even though I recognize his long, braided blond hair and dark eyes from the news; getting that kind of blowout reception after escaping a discussion on your life is never fun. There is a lot of noise, people shouting over one another in an effort to get an answer from the female lawyer wearing a pants suit while she declares stubbornly that there will be an appeal. They work their ungraceful way out the doors, and when they close, the noise dies down to its normal bustling and tapping din.

"Mister?" the girl presses, cheerful demeanor wavering slightly as she tugs on my sleeve. "Are you okay? You look like you have the measles."

I manage an insincere smirk for the grade-schooler. "I'm not sick," I assure her, even though the knot in my stomach tightens after I say it. "I have to go into that room in a few minutes." I jerk my thumb at the grand double doors to my left. Five security guards watch me distrustfully as I talk to the child, as though I had been brought here on child molestation and not murder. Anymore, I have to seriously think about which is worse.

"Why?" The innocent question forces me into a hasty retreat behind the newly-erected walls of guilt and bitterness.

"Did you see that man they just followed outside?" She nods. "I'm here for the same reason he was."

The girl frowns uncertainly and hugs her tiger closer to her chest. A dumb part of me—the part now suffocated under the curtain of self-hate and contempt that had weighed on me for four months—wants to laugh at the thought _hope Octavian doesn't find that thing_. But I don't, because today is not the day to laugh, or smile, or feel good about anything. "What do you mean? My mommy told me he was a bad person. You don't seem like a bad person."

I look away from her and stare at my hands, fidgeting absently with the paper cup. "No," I begin carefully, not sure of how to explain such a complex topic to someone too small and innocent to understand. "but I did something bad. And, I guess, that makes me bad too."

"That's stupid," I am told. "I do bad stuff all the time, and all my mom does is yell at me. And then I say I'm sorry and everything's alright again. Can't you say you're sorry?"

I close my eyes and remember the wailing widow as she pummeled my chest. Shoved me away. Cursed me. Laid a hand on her swelling belly. And I bite back tears as I answer, "Sometimes, even sorry can't make everything okay."

She looks worried while she studies me. "But . . . what is so bad that sorry can't fix it?"

I let my eyes drift toward her sorrowfully and give her a bitter, weighted smile.

* * *

"Jackson!"

Sergeant Scott—nicknamed for his drill sergeant mentality and unsavory character—barked my name with all the disrespect allotted to one of his stout heaviness and perpetual snarl. With a clipboard under his arm, a whistle around his neck, and an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth, Scott looked like the condescending misogynistic jerk teacher he was; but he was my swim coach, and that meant I had to respect him, however difficult that was to do. He had his left hand disapprovingly on his hip, chest out as though that made him look imposing in his undersized red polo shirt and stereotypical massive hat. Seriously, even though it was probably the largest size available, it barely stayed on his head.

I draped a sea-pattern towel over my shoulders and shot Scott a patronizing smirk, like I did every time he acknowledged me. "What's up, teach?"

My twenty-four other teammates were dispersing in mini-packs of about four or five each. Some of them were by the bleachers, throwing on their clothes over still-wet swimsuits. Others didn't even care about that enough. It was a co-ed team, which gave my mother heart failure when she found out, but the girls were modest and cool and everything. There were only six of them out of eighteen guys, but they fit in like a puzzle piece. The only problem with having them on the team was Sergeant Scott.

Micah walked by with his slender girlfriend, Lorraine, whose stubbornly curly dark hair was frizzed and stuck about her face. Micah had his arm over her shoulder and pressed a kiss against her cheek, but even that didn't stop my sexist swim coach from giving her the eye and placing an "encouraging" hand on her shoulder for a few seconds too long. His wedding ring glinted in the florescent light.

Micah gave him a scathing look when his back was turned and mouthed "Give 'em hell," to me. I nodded discretely and Micah walked away comforting his unsettled girlfriend, who had shoved him off after Scott's advance.

"Yo, coach!" shouted Quinn from his place in the bleachers, waving his hand exaggeratedly over his head. "I'm running low on steam. Think you can hook me up?"

I frowned at the request and shouted back, "Dude, just go get something to eat. You don't need to mooch off the Sergeant."

Quinn blew me off.

"Tomorrow!" Scott growled. "I'll get you the gift cards tomorrow."

My eyes widened in recognition. I hadn't known Quinn was tight on cash; if I had, I would have lent him a few dollars out of my Camp Half-Blood paycheck. Seeming my mom and I were a safe house during the school year and I trained demigods during the summer, we got a fair share of excess money, most of which was retired to the bank for a late-in-coming college fund. I could scrap a bit off the top, even so.

"You need a couple bucks?" I asked, quieter, when Quinn jogged over to bump fists with Scott. "I've got an extra twenty in my wallet, if you need it."

Again, all Quinn did was sneer and walk away.

"Suit yourself!" I called after him, rolling my eyes and turning my attention back to Scott. "Anyway. What'd you want to talk to me about?"

"Follow me," Scott instructed before turning on his heel and heading behind the bleachers closest to the door, where the door to his office was. I knew the way like the back of my hand and, just to be annoying, raced ahead of him to hold the door open. Scott growled before stepping through and slamming his hand against the door abruptly.

I jumped, a momentary flashback constricting my throat.

_The battle raged on all sides, relentless as rain pounded on us from overhead and the lightning was indistinguishable from the flashes of light from canons and Greek fire. Our forces were dwarfed by the enemy, demigods interdispersed with monsters as we struggled around the overwhelming odds. I slashed and hacked and dodged, surrounded at all sides. My leather armor was practically shredded, and I wouldn't be surprised if one of the many demons landed a deadly hit._

_"Percy!"_

_It was Annabeth. I turned to her a few seconds too late, heart stopping with terror, but it wasn't her she was screaming about. Reyna Avila Ramirez-Arellano was crumpled to the ground with an arrow shaft jutting from her chest, monsters converging on her without mercy._

_I pollvaulted over a monster's back, sprinting through the fray to the praetor's side, swinging my sword overhead with a cry and lifting Reyna by the armpits. Her usually perfect black braid was messy, her face streaked with blood and dirt, and her eyes were half-lidded._

_I managed to help her from the brunt of the fighting, trying to hail an Apollo camper over with a stretcher. "Hang in there, Reyna."_

_A slicked hand grasped mine, and I looked down to meet intense dark eyes. "Stop her, Jackson," she ordered. "Keep them safe."_

_I smiled, slamming the hilt of Riptide into the head of an oncoming Cyclops and crumpling him like bricks. "Whatever, Reyna. I've got this. You just—REYNA!"_

_But she was already staggering up the rocks to the peak of Mount Olympus, to the ruins of the gods' ancient dwelling where the earth churned and rocks moved of their free will. Mother Earth stirred to life when she felt the weak daughter of Bellona stumble into her clutches, to where Jason Grace was helplessly tied to his father's old throne. They argued briefly before Reyna cut him free and pushed him away, the ground taking on a new frenzy as Jason stumbled away. His blond hair was stained red from his head injury._

_Reyna unsheathed her gladius and stabbed it into the ground at her feet, opening a fissure that swallowed her and every other monster in a twenty-foot radius whole._

"You coming?" Scott demanded, and I shot back to reality, stepping through the door and shutting it behind me. Scott didn't wait for me to sit in the cushioned chair opposite his desk. "You haven't been doing your same time on the laps."

I glanced away at the vanilla folder on his desk and played with the corner. "Sorry," I muttered. "It's been a little rough. That car did a number on me." That was my story. I'd been driving with a few friends during the school year and we got T-boned. Two of my friends were killed instantly in the collision, and a guy named Jason Grace and I were given severe head trauma resulting in complete amnesia. So we staggered away from the car, leaving behind the others, and weren't found for months afterward. After getting our memories kick-started, we started intensive mental and physical therapy. It summarized a lot of what happened in a way the mortals believed, and I didn't have to drum up some lousy story of my own.

"I get it," Scott said. "That's why I want to make you an offer. I can't have my captain getting all flustered and weak in the middle of a match, so I've got a present for you." He reached into a drawer, having produced a key from I-don't-know-where, and pulled out a small silver briefcase.

I frowned at the case. "What's in it?"

"Open it," he ordered. Shrugging, I turned it around and flipped it open, pursing my lips and staring at the five vials of liquid and two syringes.

And stared at the vials and syringes.

And stared.

The vials were turned so that their labels were facing up, all pretty with various official colors on them. They weren't any bigger than the width of my palm, glass with a clear liquid inside. The seals seemed to be unbroken. _Prensdione_, they read. No, wait; pause for dyslexia to interrupt into English . . . _Prednisone_. They said _Prednisone_.

With trembling hands, I extracted a single vial from its grove and held it up for inspection. Scott's smug look eyed me from across the desk as understanding dawned in the form of a memory; the principal had given an explicit lecture on illegal performance enhancing drugs to all members of sports teams after Xavier Brindar overdosed on steroids.

The very hydra-spit I held in my hand right then.

"Why do you have this?" I enunciated levelly, praying to Zeus that it wasn't the reason I was thinking of.

Scott arched an eyebrow and adjusted his limp cigarette. "God, Jackson. I knew you were dense, but seriously? Have you seen the team nowadays? Tip-top shape, most of 'em. You think that just happened without some encouragement?"

"It's called exercise," I said, grip tightening around the vial as I matched nonchalance with disbelief and anger. "It's called a work ethic. It's called showing up to practice everyday to be your best. Not—" I slammed the vial on the desk and Scott started. "—taking potentially deadly and illegal drugs to cheat."

"So that's a 'no,' I take it?" I wanted to punch Scott in the face for his unconcerned flippancy toward this entire conversation.

"You're damn straight it's a no!" I roared, losing my cool and flinging the briefcase of drugs onto the floor, much to Scott's surprise. "You remember Xavier, right? The kid who died from that stuff because he couldn't get his fix for a couple of days, and _bam_, took one millimeter too much and keeled over?" Scott's perpetual carelessness was receding to alarm and astonishment. I leaned forward, bracing my hands against the tabletop, and did my best to stare down at my taller senior. "You're killing this team, and it has got to stop."

Scott stopped looking surprised, instead scoffing at me and grabbing the vanilla folder I'd been fidgeting with earlier and tossing it in front of me. Scowling, I opened it to the front page and saw a large graph with all the colors of the rainbow for lines; most of them had notable inclines, while the blue line dipped down like it had been kicked off a mountain top. "The blue is our time," Scott explained cockily. "Goode Swim has been blowing everyone else out the water because of me, Jackson. What can you say for yourself?"

"Didn't you hear me?" I demanded. "You're killing your team. You've got to wean them off of that before they OD. C'mon, Sergeant, don't—"

"You will listen to me!" Scott bellowed, and suddenly his hands were pinning mine to the table. I stared at the restraint, flabbergasted, and tried to pull away; to my surprise, he was too strong. "I am bringing these kids out of the gutters. I'm like Promise bringing fire to mankind—"

"Are you talking about Prometheus?"

"Don't interrupt me!" Scott's eyes flashed angrily and I had to bite my lip to keep from mouthing off again. "Like I was saying, you guys need someone who can shrug off the rules a bit to win. Isn't that what's it's all about?"

I shot my hands forward out of Scott's grip and he stumbled, face almost colliding with his desk. "Swimming is about doing what you love, not earning trophies that are only going to gather dust. And if that's what you think matters—about anything in life—then I think you need to find a new job."

I turned to the door, but Scott launched himself at me, both of us falling to the ground like sacks of potatoes. Restricted by his body mass and girth, I couldn't move away from Scott. He grabbed either side of my head and slammed it against the tile floor. The room spun furiously and faded in and out of focus. Muscle memory took over and I hooked a finger under his collarbone and pushed back. He rolled off of me and I crawled away, listing helplessly to the side.

Scott grabbed my foot, and the fog burst apart, crystal clarity almost disorienting in its suddenness; the problem was, two events seemed to claim opposite sides of my vision, like a movie split screen. On one side, a web wound tightly around Annabeth's foot as I clung to her hand, dangling over the depths of Tartarus. On the other was the demented expression of my coach while he crushed my ankle in his hands, hisses of warning falling to deaf ears.

I kicked Scott in the jaw while I released the ledge. Scott and me let go simultaneously.

I scrambled to my feet, but Scott recovered and punched me in the back of the knee. The reflex sent me flying forward, chin knocking against the corner of the desk. Once again, colors blurred together and the world became a continuous string of goo, arms in front of me and leaden. I couldn't even cry for help.

Something that sounded suspiciously like a door cracking open blared in my ears as the hellhound raked its claws against my back. I screamed in pain, hand darting out to grab my fallen Riptide and rolled over just in time with plunge it through the dog's neck, ichor gushing from the wound like a fountain as I scampered away and prepared for more enemies.

Except there weren't any. It was just me and Sergeant Scott in his poolside office, which had been thoroughly demolished in the wake of our wrestling match. And my teacher was slumped on his stomach, fingers curled around something small protruding from his neck. In his other hand was a lamp.

Scott gargled desperately on whatever was sticking out of his neck, and red blood began to tinge the area around the protrusion. Scott's eyes were wide as he reached toward the door and . . .

And his blood was red!

The realization struck me like a wrecking ball and I fell to my knees beside my wounded superior, yanking what I now identified as a syringe from his neck and using nearby papers to stem the flow of blood. Scott continued gurgling wordlessly, reaching past me toward the door. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

I turned and saw the mortified face of Micah in the doorway, braced against the frame and staring at me like I had dropped out of the sky. Accusation burned in his eyes, as well as a strong desire to understand. "Micah, I-I can explain. This . . . This isn't what it looks like."

"You stabbed him," Micah said, almost as though he were possessed and speaking at the behest of another. "In the neck. He's going to die."

I shook my head quickly. "No! No! It's . . . We can help him. We can save him. Just . . . call 911."

Micah's terror didn't subside.

"We need a doctor!" I screamed, but the stricken look on Micah's face told me all I needed to know about his receptiveness right then. So I adopted the authoritative tone I had only learned after being thrust into the role of war commander. "Damn it, Micah, call 911! Now!"

It was like flipping a switch; his dumbfounded look vanished as he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed the three numbers, hands traveling near the speed of light. I didn't even worry about the monsters the mobile call would attract; right then, a man's life was on the line and it was up to me to save him.

I looked back to Scott and found that the papers I was using weren't sufficient to even slow the blood. It was streaming down his neck in rivers of crimson; the needle must have torn a wider hole than just the isolated puncture. "Shit!" I looked around for something better to help me with, but nothing presented itself. Meanwhile, Scott was convulsing erratically in my arms, eyes wide with shock and mouth open as he struggled for air. "Micah, get some towel too!"

Micah was blathering into his phone too much to hear me. "Goode High . . . Yeah, yeah, it's bad. There's a lot of blood. Well, okay, not a lot, but he's—oh God, he just vomited a bunch of blood. Is that normal?" Sure enough, Scott's gurgles were interrupted by violent retches off to the side. His bloody puke soaked my swim trunks, but I didn't care, desperate to hold pressure on his wound. "Don't compress it? But I thought . . . Okay! Okay! Percy, stop putting pressure on it! You're choking him!"

Disbelieving, I removed my hands from his neck, watching in horror as the blood continued to ooze from the puncture site and Scott thrashed on the ground like a fish out of water. "Are you nuts? He'll bleed out if I don't!"

"She says you'll only help him choke," Micah said fearfully, and I softened my gaze, wiping my bloody hands on my face and shaking my head. "Yeah, no, wasn't talking to you. What? Yeah, there's someone else here. What? Percy, sit him up. He'll drown otherwise."

I did as instructed, straining to heave Scott into a sitting position and propping him against the desk. So far, practicality was holding the place for shock and panic later on, and it was better that way; like this, I could address the problem and fix it. If I reverted to my anxious, frantic "Oh my gods, he's going to die and it's all my fault," then Scott would definitely die. I had to stay clearheaded.

Of course, thinking I had to stay clearheaded was not conducive to staying clearheaded.

"Oh gods," I breathed, running my fingers through my hair and watching as Scott choked a little less. Wet coughs with a spray of red saliva were not uncommon, but he wasn't making that horrifyingly demonic sound anymore. "What have I done?"

Scott's dark eyes wandered toward me, hatred toiling in their depths. His hand was clamped over his throat, red seeping between his fingers. I wanted to be sick.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks. Yeah. Thanks," Micah babbled, hanging up and coming to kneel at my side. "Percy, wha-what happened? All I saw was him on top of you, and then you . . . and then he . . ."

I shook my head despairingly and pointed at one of the vials of steroids. "He tried to give me that, and when I threatened to turn him in . . ."

"God," Micah said under his breath. "This feels surreal."

I thought about the Hollywood-quality explosions from The Giant War, the spires shooting out of the sky as Nico and Hazel combined their geokinetic powers against Gaea while I left from tip to tip, dodging the spears that jutted from the moss pit of monsters below on my way to the cliff. The way fire parted the heavens in a great schism, and bombs of Greek fire and Archimedes-level weapons rained down as though the Argo II were a massive trireme shaped cloud. The white shocks of lightning juxtaposing a blood-red sky as pandemonium overwhelmed the ranks of Romans and Greeks alike, no friend a true friend and no foe a true foe. The coalescing of charmspeak, lightning, fire, water, death, and war under the careful guidance of wisdom to bring the awakening form of Gaea back into the earth she had always been a part of; the storm that built overhead, infused with the unconstrained strength of the ocean, the wild destructiveness of fire, the short-lived burst of power, jewels tumbling over one another in the whirlwind, all orchestrated, all controlled by the proud, defiant voice of Aphrodite's favorite daughter. The forceful earthquake that started cracking the rocks of Mount Olympus as we fled, skidding down the steep side and getting battered and bruised like no one else before on our way down, screaming in terror because the ground was not supposed to come that fast. The genius of Annabeth when she shouted, "Percy, waterspout!" and I fainted, summoning a cushion of sea foam to deliver us safely to the ground.

I opened my eyes. "Yeah," I agreed, deadpan. "Surreal."

But then the game changed. Scott's stabilizing condition wasn't so stable when he let out a cry of pain and clutched his left arm, clenching his jaw and roaring in agony. "What's wrong with him?" Micah demanded, but I didn't have an answer. I tried to help him, but I had no idea how. Scott's eyes flew open again, and he thrashed about desperately. Blood all but spurted from his neck wound, and I screamed for help for several minutes as he tossed and turned.

People came running only then; why they hadn't showed sooner I would never know. They stared in unhelpful terror as their teacher bled out in front of them

Just as the sirens foretelling the arrival of paramedics could be heard, Scott slumped against the desk, head rolling to the side with his eyes bloodshot and open.

"Sergeant!" I cried, immediately jostling him for a response. A tiny bubble of blood trailed down his neck below the collar of his polo shirt. "Sergeant!" I probed his neck for a sporadic heartbeat, only to receive stillness in return.

My teammates rushed out to greet the paramedics and bring them to the scene of the crime. Three men in black uniforms rushed in as my team pulled away to let them through, crouched beside my coach and urging Micah and me aside. They worked for over ten minutes, pulling out a defibrillator and laying Scott on his back. I almost told them the lady on the phone said not to do that when I realized they had more field experience than she did. I stayed silent. They watched the yellow bow for a minute, and then cried "Clear!" Another minute wait, another "Clear!"

When Scott slumped to the ground that time, his head rolled toward me, eyes coincidentally finding my cowering form by his desk. His lips were partially open, stained red with his blood. His chest was eerily still.

One of the paramedics sighed and unstuck the pads from Scott's chest, shaking his head.

"Time of Death: 1715."

* * *

They had to load me onto a stretcher to get me to the ambulance, because my knees knocked together if I tried to stand on my own. The dull shock so iconic of a grieving loved one permeated my every pore, denying my mind the inevitable conclusion that would, surely, break it.

I lay awake in the ambulance while the paramedic asked me a string of questions. Apparently, I wasn't responding to any of them the way I was supposed to, because her brows were growing increasingly closer with each negative and affirmative that passed my inanimate lips. I could feel Scott's blood on my hands still, sticking to the skin like drying paint. I fidgeted and it flaked off. I barely had the presence of mind to understand my hands were stained with the blood of my victim.

The sirens roared in my ears, banishing all other thought.

I was jolted by a sudden impact with the ground, sucking in a short breath as I bumped along asphalt and was kicked up onto a curb. I felt wind resistance as they raced me to one of the ER's. I wished my mother were there; if there was ever a time I needed my hand to be held like I was a little boy again, it was right then.

They hooked me up to a million wires and cords, and I felt like the Borg. A triage nurse made polite conversation while she disinfected the crook of my left elbow and stuck me with the needle. Like a phantom image projected over the real world, I saw the syringe sink into Scott's neck and felt the first twinge of guilt invade my steady heartbeat.

It would be the first of many.

The triage nurse scribbled things on the clipboard, informing me that they were short on staff and backlogged, so the necessity of me getting immediate care might pose a few problems. Was it a problem for me to wait a half an hour to be checked on, or was my condition critical?

"No," I remember saying emotionlessly before the nurse left and latched the door behind her.

I stared at the ceiling for an interminable amount of time, letting my peripheral pick up on the desk of medical supplies to my right. It was a small room, isolated from the others. There was a sink next to the door, and I craved water, my parched throat screaming to be quenched. But when I tried to open my mouth to ask for some, all that came out was a quiet, inhuman baritone scraping sound, like gravel rubbing against wood.

My fingers danced across the bed, curling around the coolness of one of the bars to my right. A distant part of my mind said _might as well get used to it_ and I released the metal abruptly, not fully comprehending why.

That was the ugly beauty of the mind, I supposed: Its ability to know something with absolute certainty and yet convince the entire body, including itself, that it was not true. It rang true repeatedly throughout my life, but none as much as right then.

The door opened, nearly slamming against the wall. I jumped into a sitting position, realizing only then that I had sustained some bruising from the fight and wincing in pain. My mother's brunette figure enveloped me in a constraining, loving hug. Two people entered behind her, and I made out the forms of my stepfather, Paul Blofis, and my girlfriend, Annabeth Chase, through the cascading curls of Mom's hair.

"Percy," she said, voice tear-soaked. "They won't tell me what happened. Are you alright?"

I nodded against her and she pulled away, gripping my shoulders and scrutinizing my every inch. I realized bashfully that I was only wearing one of those hospital gowns; they had squeezed me into one right before they plugged me in, and I had drifted in and out of consciousness at the time. I tried not to meet Annabeth's eyes, knowing I'd turn the color of blood if I caught sight of her smug look.

_You're already the color of blood_, a voice taunted from the back of my mind. _Look at your hands. The evidence isn't erased; they haven't washed you. Smell it. What does it smell like?_

I shook my head and smiled at my mother, brain managing to section off the lifeless, dumb fraction of it for the time-being, so I still didn't have to think about my dirty deed but could function in the conversation. I opened my mouth to say something, but the croaking gravel-against-wood sound was unintelligible. My mother frowned in concern. "Do you need something?"

"W-wa . . ." Gods, I couldn't even manage the first syllable. Irritably, I pointed at the sink and both my mother and Annabeth looked like a light had gone off over their head. Paul was thoroughly confused.

After Annabeth had filled a plastic cup with water for me and I'd drained it, giving an experimental grunt and finding that my throat only hurt a little, Paul pulled up a stool and propped his arms against the metal bars next to me. "How're you doing, buddy?"

"Paul, don't patronize him," my mother reprimanded, starting to lift a chair to bring it next to me. Annabeth intercepted her and set it down. There were no other seating arrangements in the room, so Annabeth pulled down the bars and perched beside me on the bed.

She pressed a chaste kiss between my eyes. "I figured you'd prefer it down, anyway."

I tilted my head to capture her lips in another innocent peck. "Thanks," I said against her mouth. "You know me so well."

"You're kind of an open book." Annabeth chuckled and threaded her fingers through mine. Amusement sparkled in her grey eyes, which churned with a million thoughts and emotions, all of which were compartmentalized in her brain but too jumbled together for someone to read her who wasn't used to her signals. The way she had her hair down around her shoulders as opposed to up in a hasty ponytail was a sign of vulnerability and sincere concern. Her grasp on my one hand with both of hers was an increased possessiveness that manifested after my eight-month long disappearance the year prior. The way only one side of her lips curled was a subtle hint that her laughter was partially feigned.

I looked at her gently and said, "Ditto."

"Percy?" Mom prompted gently. I looked over at her, and she smiled meekly. "Are you okay? Can you tell us what happened?"

I shrugged and my arm convulsed for no reason. It pinched the IV needle. "Scott was giving out steroids, and when I turned him down and threatened to turn him in, he attacked me. Next thing I knew, he was slamming my head into the floor like he wanted to kill me."

Never in my life had I seen my family burn with as much anger as they had when I finished; Mom's usually understanding and pacifying aura was overshadowed by a palpable contempt that rolled off of her, her hand tucked in the clenched fist of Paul, who wore such a carefully blank expression that it scared me. Annabeth had never looked quite so calculatingly murderous in her life, grey eyes overtaken by hatred and rage as she stared accusingly at the wall; I was afraid she would burn a hole through it.

"I'll kill him," Paul growled in a voice so unlike his usual forgiving self that I recoiled.

The confession slipped past my lips like a tiny pebble from a sifter. "Too late," I said, feeling alarm at my own words hit me halfway into the next half of the sentence. "He's already dead."

The anger dissipated immediately; a light layer remained, but now the room's consensus was shock and disbelief. "Dead?" Mom echoed, looking like I was a pathological liar who couldn't be trusted to say the truth. "Percy, how did he—?"

"Did you kill him?"

Annabeth was still sitting beside me on my bed, and her eyes were unyielding of any current emotion. I searched them for disgust or revulsion, but at best, I found presumptuous curiosity. Hesitantly, I tightened my grip on her hand and nodded.

My mother gasped.

"He knocked me down," I narrated, feeling the jolt from his fist connecting with the back of my knee again and the throbbing under my chin. It had been cut on impact, too, I learned as I felt the jagged cut with my fingers. "I guess, when he grabbed my ankle, I started having a flashback. So when I found a syringe on the ground, I just . . ." I pantomimed a stab into his throat. Guilt had not invaded my voice yet; the shock was receding, disrupted by my confession and continually chipped away at by the discussion.

Annabeth squeezed my hand and said nothing.

Mom came to her feet, looking pale and feverish. Her face was caught between horror and sympathy. She rubbed my forehead concernedly and leaned down to kiss my brow like she had when I was young. "Percy, are you okay?"

I glanced at my, for all intents and purposes, shackled body irritably. "Yeah, well; I feel pretty okay, but you wouldn't figure from the Quarantine-type treatment I'm getting."

"She didn't mean physically," Paul interjected, looking meaningful from his chair behind the two nursing women.

Over the course of those last few minutes, my heart rate had sped up seven beats per second and my overall body temperature had spiked three degrees. Paul and everyone else in the room knew it, except me, who stayed under the comfortable shroud of denial for just a while longer. "I did what I had to do," I said flippantly, and automatically my gut clenched. _Murder is no joke_, a voice reprimanded from my subconscious. "Scott was going to kill me or hurt me really bad; I just wish he had been, like, a Lastry-Giant-From Canada or something."

"Lastrygonian," Annabeth corrected as she kissed me. "And it's nice to you you're looking at this practically. You probably want to call Chiron when you get out, anyway. And take a few days off of school." She glanced up at Mom. "I know what it's like to have a flashback during a fight. He's going to need recuperation time, after he's no longer drugged halfway to Saturn."

I frowned at her pointedly and said, "They didn't drug me."

"Always the unobservant one, aren't you, Seaweed Brain?" She leaned down to hug me and whispered in my ear, "I know shock when I see it. Give yourself some time."

I had never loved my girlfriend more than in that moment.

* * *

I gave myself plenty of time. The weekend and three days into the school week were set aside by my mother and Paul for me to spend as much R & R as I needed. Annabeth informed me that her school—a place called Stuyvesant High that was, like, the epitome of freakish academic overachievers among which I was sometimes afraid Annabeth would find someone more suitable to fill the role of significant other than I was—was having an earlier break and, for some reason, longer break than Goode, one that coincided with my mental respite. Needless to say, Saturday and Sunday were spent at the movies and a dinner besides simply roaming about Manhattan with our hands clasped together.

It was on Sunday that I noticed the odd looks were shooting us—or rather, me. Everyone was different: Some looked pitying, as though I were a dog that had been run over and was wheezing in the street on borrowed time; others were murderous, stage whispers with their friends unintelligible and yet very clearly scathing. It was almost everyone that saw us, and gods forbid I should greet one of them.

Finally, I snapped after an African-American guy said, "I totally understand," and walked past with his girlfriend, who looked a little disdainful toward me.

"Why is everyone treating me like I've got cancer?" I demanded of nothing, shoving my Subway sandwich into my mouth. Mayonnaise trickled down my chin and Annabeth snorted as she reached over to wipe it away. "Seriously. I don't get it. It's like I'm famous, only not in a good way."

Annabeth faltered with her hand on my cheek and sighed, leaning back in her seat. "I'm surprised you didn't know," she said under her breath, but then she shook her head. "They broadcasted the story on the news last night and early this morning."

I stopped with my mouth hovering open over my next bite and pulled the now-not-so-twelve-inch sub from my face. "Story?"

"The incident at your school. Sergeant Scott's death." She said it quietly, like a brush of wind against my arm. But it sent a consequent chill up my skin anyway. I shivered and set the sandwich down, shutting my eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said, looking up at her. "It's just . . . I'm still trying to deal with it, and now it's, like, the newest scandal on live television? And I thought Hephaestus TV was rude."

Annabeth nodded thoughtfully and took a prim bite of her own salad on bread, small chicken pieces scattered throughout so many leafy greens I was left seeing the world like a tree-huger if I looked at her too long. My prolonged silence apparently worried her, because she asked, "Are you sure you're okay? You look a little pale."

"Annabeth, I'm—" I glimpsed my reflection in the window I was sitting in front of, seeing that, indeed, my face had turned wan. And my hands were imperceptibly shaking. There was firm knot in my stomach, but it hadn't receded since Scott's death, so I didn't pay attention to it. "I guess it got to me more than I thought," I confessed guiltily—but not because I regretted what I'd done (_yet . . .)._

Annabeth smiled glumly and took my hand. "I wouldn't like you if it didn't. Good people can't kill other people without feeling remorse about it, but don't let it eat at you. Okay? Don't start thinking you're a murderer, because you're not. And if you need to talk, Percy, you know you can call me _anytime, _right?"

I laughed dismissively and squeezed her hand back, breaking the contact to scoff some more food down my gullet. "You know me, Wise Girl. When do I ever think about _anything _long enough to feel bad about it?" Annabeth's disbelieving look knocked loose a tiny shred of guilt that I'd suffocated with video games and endless dates with my girlfriend. As it bounced around in my skull, I found it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact and not look like I was staring her down.

Finally, Annabeth chuckled, adjusting her blonde ponytail and shaking her head. "At least you're honest, Percy. At least you're honest."

"When have I ever _not _been? 'Cept when I'm tricking monsters."

As I bowed my head to take yet another bite, a small voice in the back of my mind said:

_Liar._


	2. Part II

**A Forced Hand**

_Part II_

_"Innocence does not find near so much protection as guilt." _

_- Francois de La Rochefoucauld_

That night was pure Hades (Tartarus, a tiny part of my brain suggests, knowing my aversion to that particular curse. A moment of fear swallows me before I stuff it under a metaphysical pillow and sit on it).

I dropped Annabeth off at the hotel her father was paying for, giving her a soft peck on the lips before watching her disappear through the exquisite doors of the Paramount Hotel (Seriously? Talk about going all out there to spoil his daughter.). A doorman held them open for her, and she smiled at him politely before shooting me one last smirk and disappearing from sight.

And then she was gone.

My heart crumpled in the vice that had been crushing it since our conversation at Subway and I slumped against the passenger door, bowing my head and knotting my fingers in my hair. My eyes stung viciously and my knees were weak, the guilt threatening to destroy me from the inside out.

"You had to do it," I reminded myself, earning a weird look from a lady in an animal shawl on her way to the double doors. My shabby blue Prius (lent to me by Paul) must have looked _really _out of place among Cadillacs, Mustangs, and limousines. "He was going to kill _you. _Do you want to die?"

For some reason, my brain did not yield up the automatic: _No. _And more than anything else, that scared me.

So I climbed into the car and drove so carefully back home I must have torqued off, like, fifteen billion drivers on the road. I was three miles under the speed limit the whole time, meticulous about checking the turns and always checking my mirrors to make sure I was safe to execute any maneuver. Usually, I trusted my almost instinctual driver's reactions, but not today; today felt strange and alien, like a strange shift in my mental outlook. Suddenly, everything looked like a weapon, and I was compartmentalizing how the lamppost was good for breaking someone's face with, but that stray spike on the ground would make an excellent suicide tool.

I pulled in excruciatingly slowly into the parallel parking space assigned to our apartment, outside my house. Fishing my keys from my pocket, I jogged inside and up the stairs without paying any mind to the night guard, Jordan, while he played with a Nintendo DS.

It was late, almost midnight, and I knew my parents were likely asleep. So I inched the door open, crept inside like a ninja, and deposited my keys in the bowel beside my bed. My bedroom door squeaked because we were too cheap to get WD-40 (just kidding; Paul and I were too lazy), so I flopped down on the couch and immediately closed my eyes.

_Akkhys looked at me with miserable amusement, her face tear-streaked and nauseating as she studied me. She was sobbing while laughing at me, and at her feet was a puddle of poisons, broken by none other than myself when I was in Tartarus._

_"O, sweet misery," she lamented. "Soon you will know it, and you will regret ever calling me 'Sunshine.'"_

_I snorted at the memory, but my smile vanished when I remembered the horror that had overtaken Annabeth's face as I focused the liquid of poisons and acids around Akkhys' ankles, up her body. She still looked deformed from it; part of her face burned away, skin even more cracked and pale than usual._

_"Welcome to the ranks of the killers," she said, pointing down at the Acheron as it wound into the upper world. My heart stopped and I looked at her in terror, but she just smiled through her tears and burst into a million colors._

* * *

I had intended to spend the next day on homework and holed up in my bedroom, but a knock on my door suggested otherwise.

I closed my notebook (filled with misspellings and doodles) and threw on a shirt over my sweat pants before opening the door, keeping the chain there until I was certain whoever it was was safe. Sure enough, a smug looking Leo Valdez waited on the other side, arms crossed over his oil-stained green shirt and overalls with his Mary Poppins tool belt hanging on his waist.

I opened the door all the way, snorting when I saw Jason and Nico flanking him. "What are you guys doing here?" I demanded.

Nico shrugged, looking very uncomfortable in the neutral brown he was wearing; not having him in black and silver was like catching me without Riptide—impossible.

_Except the one day it counted._

Leo laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "Dude, get ready, 'cuz we're going and getting me a girlfriend today."

Jason made no secret of rolling his eyes, a habit he'd picked from too many continuous hours with his girlfriend, Piper McLean. Sort of like my vicarious smarts about architecture, even though I really didn't have any clue about it consciously. "We figured, after getting holed up in here and then having Annabeth talk your ear off about what's going on with the rebuilding efforts for Olympus, you might want some guy time."

"Coming from the domesticated son of Jupiter?" I challenged, laughing at Jason's bristling stature. "Kidding, kidding. I'll get ready. Hold on."

I closed the door in their faces and had to take a deep breath before a lone tear trailed down my cheek. _You don't deserve them, _the voice taunted. _You don't deserve people who love you. You're a murderer._

"Shut up," I said to myself. "You're wrong."

If only I believed that.

* * *

The outing was fun, and I seriously enjoyed just hanging out with the guys. It turned out, surprisingly enough, that Nico was a master when it came to dancing games and nailed a high-score, like, every time. When asked about where he learned it, his face darkened and he said, "It was Bianca's favorite game."

Jason had a thing about the shooting simulators, mostly the zombie ones, and kept shooting his teammates when he got a little too into it. Leo lectured him about that not being very Roman of him, and the now ex-praetor of Camp Jupiter turned away bashfully. We laughed at him without shame.

Leo, however, was thoroughly obsessed with the tunnel network above Chuckie Cheese's; despite the fact he was _way _too old for it. But being the wiry, small mechanic he was, he navigated it better than some of the younger kids. Eventually, Jason and I made it a game of tracking Leo down in it, but that proved easier said than done; we were hopelessly lost within seconds, whereas Leo had some weird tunnel-above-ground sixth sense that gave him perfect bearings. It was like me at sea, only he wasn't randomly spouting coordinates like an unhelpful GPS.

After having expended our energy being dweebs, we came down to find that Nico had already bought three large cheese pizzas and gathered an assortment of tickets to buy stuff with. Leo insisted on buying Chinese Handcuffs to give Frank on Christmas (none of us could stop cracking iguana jokes for an hour after that), Jason arched an eyebrow at a basketball, and Nico studied a skeleton displayed on the desk. But I couldn't decide on what I wanted.

At least, until I caught sight of a box of rings, one of which had a silver dolphin on it, tiny blue stones for eyes.

The first thing I thought of was Annabeth, sitting across from me in Subway with a trail of sweet onion sauce dribbling down her chin. The way she squeezed my hand in understanding and love right before returning to her normal, teasing self. The tufts of golden hair that stuck out at awkward angles when she messed up her ponytail during a fight and tried to right it. How only she could look like a million drachmas straight out of Tartarus, in nothing but faded jeans and a loose-fitting tank top.

An expansive smile broke out on my face when I remembered New Rome, the light at the end of the tunnel for demigods; a permanent home without monsters or wars. Ten years of service—ten years Frank had assured us were completed during the war against Gaea.

I showed the ring to the shopkeeper and he smirked, taking my tickets. "Got a lovely girlfriend waiting for you?"

I nodded, unable to hide my happiness. "Yeah," I said. "She's not big on jewelry, but I think I've got an idea."

The shopkeeper wished me luck and bid us a good day.

* * *

I didn't get the chance to see Annabeth before the next day, when I resumed school.

My mom seemed uncertain as Paul wheeled up, twisting around in her seat and squeezing my knee with apprehension shining in her deep, compassionate brown eyes. "You going to be okay?" she asked sweetly.

My smile wasn't as forced as it could have been. "Yeah," I said flippantly. "Don't worry about it, mom. There's no trouble yet, is there?"

Mom's face relaxed and she chuckled. "Of course," she said to herself. "I don't know why I was worrying."

I climbed out of the back, swung my plain blue backpack over my shoulder, and jogged up onto the curb. I raised my hand in farewell as Paul and my mom switched places and he tucked his laptop case under his case. Mom blew me a kiss before driving away.

Paul clapped me on the back. "Teacher meeting. Sorry, Pierce, but I have to run."

"Don't worry about it," I told me, waving him on. "Catch you in third period."

Paul hastened up the steps into the main building while I hung out in front on the green, pulling out my unfinished homework and hoping to scribble down a few Pre-Calk problems before the bell rang for first period. Under the shade of a birch, sitting on a bench, I was pretty secluded by the rabble of students closer to the street, getting progressively rowdy and out of hand. I blew them off, seeing the home stretch in sight with only three more (word) problems left. I might have some time for "Tai Chi" before school started.

And then my backpack when toppling to the ground, encouraged by a stocky bully by the name of Abram. His shaved head reflected the morning light as he towered over me; mismatched poop-brown eyes alight with anger. "Yo, Jackie," he said crassly. "Hear you got promoted to from 'bomber' to 'murderer.' How does it feel?"

_Murderer. _The word reverberated around my skull like a half-forgotten memory whose tune I wasn't sure I wanted to remember. My fists clenched. "I didn't murder anyone."

"Really?" Abram challenged, walking around the bench and crouching in front of me. Cruel fire danced in his eyes. "'Cuz the way I hear it, Sergeant Scott's wife is collecting life insurance as we speak."

Normally, my fist would have connected with his cheek before I knew what I was doing. But today, I just stared back at him, eyes vacant of emotion. I could feel any empathy slipping away through the pores of my body. "I killed him," I confirmed, but the words carried no weight, no substance. "But I didn't murder him. I was defending myself."

Abram snorted. "Was it fun?" he asked.

"What?"

"Killing Scott. Was it fun?"

I swallowed, but my throat was dry. Why was my heart beating so quickly? "It was horrible," I told him quietly. "There was nothing but blood, and I wanted to throw up. It was horrible."

But Abram wasn't sated. "I asked if it was fun," he pressed, leaning closer. "Was it?"

I blinked at him, eyelashes obscuring his fight-scarred face as I struggled to breathe. I thought back to that moment, all the terror and the urgency of it, the sickening understanding of knowing Scott was mortal and I'd endangered his life. Of watching the paramedics scramble to save my victim. The desperation for the next few moments to hurry up and slow down, because things were too difficult to comprehend but I didn't want to linger, didn't want the metallic burn on my nose one more second.

"No," I said honestly. "It was not fun."

Abram stood up and shoved me in the shoulder. I grabbed the bench to avoid tipping over. "Liar," he accused, and then he walked away.

* * *

School was Hades; pointed looks and unsubtle whispers followed me down the halls between classes, to my locker at lunch, to the lonely alcove in the corner of the cafeteria where even the worst on the social ladder didn't venture. My friends—Gerald, Hub, Colt, even fun-loving Mindy Smith who never failed to give me some philosophical Christian mumbo-jumbo to bring a smile to my face—never appeared to make an effort to find me, all sitting at the table I usually occupied and laughing as though there wasn't a missing party.

There wasn't even a vacancy at the table; that was taken up by the big-headed Quinn. At least he spared me a momentary glance, five milliseconds of a wolf-like simper filling my eyes before he returned his attention to whatever the discussion topic was for that day.

* * *

I called Annabeth as soon as my backpack landed on the ground with a determined _thump. _"Mr. Chase?" I asked, hearing the tenor of Annabeth's mortal father chastising his youngest son not to punch his ex-girlfriend in the mouth. I wasn't sure I wanted to know. "It's Percy. Can I talk to Annabeth?"

"She's a little busy right now, son. Can I take a message?"

I rubbed my temples and banged my head against the wall hopelessly. "No. Thanks, but no. Just wanted to talk. Tell her I called?"

"Annabeth!" Mr. Chase hollered, voice muffled as I assumed he held the phone away from his mouth. "Percy says he loves you!"

I was glad he couldn't see the redness of my face. "Uh . . . That too."

"Don't worry about it, son. She told me how friendly you two are." My cheeks were hotter than Leo Valdez on a bad day. "Fully condoned, of course. Just mind you don't get too carried away any time soon. You both still have college to think about. Pitter-pattering feet are the last thing you want."

"Mr. Chase?"

"Yes, Percy?"

"I'm not even eighteen yet. Please stop."

Mr. Chase's warm laugh was his parting word, because a second later, the phone clicked and the connection ended. Gently, I nestled the phone in its bowel and threw my backpack on my shoulder. Mom was at work and Paul had stayed late for teacher stuff. He let me take the car home and said he'd call when he needed picked up.

I chucked the backpack on my bed, grateful that I didn't have any more homework than the practice math problems I'd done in class, because—really—who wants to hear about Ms. Peterson's orthodontist appointment? Angrily pulling the fridge open and grabbing a can of Coca-Cola, I sunk into the counter and sighed, considering the perks of ceasing to exist for a while.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the glint of a steak knife in the sink. For some reason, my eyes hovered on it a couple of seconds longer than usual.

Then the phone rang, and Annabeth scolded me for not delaying her father long enough for her to get to the phone. And she loved me too.

* * *

School was consistently unlivable, but then the weekend arrived and I had the opportunity to sleep in.

Of course, that lasted only so long as Paul wasn't screaming in the living room. "The police ruled it as self-defense! He's just a kid. He doesn't need to be dragged through the system already."

I bolted upright, panting heavily as my hand darted to the dresser by my bed. But as Paul continued his strangled shouts, I realized it wasn't a monster or even physical attacker; he was arguing with someone on the phone. Hurrying out of my blankets, I raced for the bedroom door and wrenched it open; Paul's pale and twisted face had red ears and noise, looking fearsome with the phone pressed to his ear.

"No!" he cried suddenly, slamming his fist down on the table. I jumped. "Witnesses testified that Percy had . . . What do you mean, 'new evidence?' The case was virtually closed! The ME found steroids in his blood, just like Percy said . . . You can't do this! Gods, what is wrong with you? You can't—my family's religious beliefs are completely beside the point, Ms. Levi. Fine! Then you leave me no choice. I hope you have a state of the art lawyer, Ms. Levi, because I am hiring the most altruistic and effective man in this city. . . . And no, that is not a recipe for failure!" He slammed the receiver down, panting hard as he leaned on it.

Only then did he realize my stunned presence in the doorway. "Scott's widow is pressing charges, isn't she?" I said, too dumbfounded to fully process what I had just overheard.

Paul outstretched his hand toward me. "I'm sorry, Percy. I tried to reason with her, but I could swear she only married that man because. She's convinced she can . . ." He trailed off, as though afraid of what my reaction would be if he finished.

I hang back, away from his arm, and narrowed my eyes. "What are the charges?" I asked. "Is is manslaughter, or . . . ?"

"She's trying to convict you of premeditated murder."

My world started to spin, tilted and disharmonious around me; I felt like the center piece in a snow globe that was being shaken. Technically rooted to the spot, but disoriented by the churning and trembling. I almost lost my steadying grip on the doorway, and I was dumbly aware that Paul was trying to reassure me that Ms. Levi really had nothing on which to base her accusations. He didn't know a lot about law, but the AP Gov. teacher was his close friend ("and don't tell your mother this, but I dated her a while before I met Sally.") and her fiance was a dignified criminal lawyer who wasn't above taking decreased payments for friends and family in distress. He usually prosecuted, he confessed, but that wasn't a concern. He'd batted for the other team occasionally and was more than capable of handling my case. He'd already offered, according to Paul's work associate.

"Percy?" Paul's voice called from a ways off. "Are you alright?"

I blinked out of my stupor and the reflexive smile broke across my face. "I'm not worried, Paul. I know it's okay; I mean, New York has Stand Your Ground laws, right?"

_A murderer is a murderer is a murderer, Jackson. Law is irrelevant. You're a killer._

* * *

"I've already scoured ten law books—and, let me tell you, that _hurt _my eyes—and I think I've got a pretty good legal argument if they put me on the stand . . . Percy, focus. This is serious! Your life is in jeo—"

I dropped to one knee in the middle of the library and held up the ring I'd bought at the arcade. "Annabeth Chase," I began, possessed suddenly by the urge to do this. "I know we're still only seventeen, but will you promise to wait for me when we're older? Will you live with me in Camp Jupiter for college?"

I had rehearsed it for hours on end in front of the mirror, and considering my girlfriend was the daughter of the goddess of wisdom, I could think of no better place to propose than a library.

Rows of books flanked us on either side—it was the law section of the library, where Annabeth had labored over book after book. A single, small wooden table with only two chairs was littered in various books of various subjects, as Annabeth had been "tutoring" me before breaking out the Constitution and lecturing me on her legal plan.

My girlfriend's saucer eyes scintillated with silvery disbelief as she stared at the cheap ring like it was The Hope Diamond. Both her hands rested on the large volume, and her jaw was slightly agape. Her blonde hair hung over her eyes in tiny tufts, the way it always did after I gave her a good morning kiss. Slowly, she blinked, hiding her beautiful eyes from view for a few milliseconds before opening them again.

"What?"

I swallowed, suddenly panicked. I hadn't planned on reiterating myself. Was it cheesy and under thought if I said the exact same thing? Would she think I was patronizing her? But if I came up with it off the top of my head, it would be lame and stupid and _not _the way one was supposed to propose. Then again, this wasn't technically a proposal; it was promise ring, that Annabeth would wait for me and me for her until we were ready to get married. It was the pre-proposal. The slightly less stressful question that might nullify the future one completely. (_Please, Aphrodite . . . )_

"Uh . . ." I swallowed hard again. "I-I wanted to ask you if . . . Would you . . .? I mean, after all of this is over . . . I love you a lot, and . . ."

And then, a ring with a clear blue stone materialized in front of my face, cupped in Annabeth's left palm. "Great minds think alike, eh, Seaweed Brain?" Her mirthful smirk erased the tension and worry from my shoulders and chest instantly. "Now it sounds a day late and dollar short, but will you marry me when we're done with high school and the first few years of college?"

"How are you so calm about this?" I demanded, suddenly falling back on my defensiveness. "I mean, I was stressing over this for days before I worked up the nerve. And you're just like, 'Here. Have a pretty ring. Yeah, I'm gonna marry you. Sorry to make you—'"

Annabeth crushed her lips to mine and I pushed the ring onto her finger.

* * *

"What's with the dorky necklace?"

I closed my locker, shouldering my backpack higher on my arm, and sighed. "I go to a summer camp and that's how you show seniority," I told the burly, antagonistic senior. Just because he was in the year above me, the guy had never wasted an opportunity to pick a fight with the underclassman. Honestly, he wasn't even that much taller than me. "I've got to get to Physics A, if you'd . . ."

Ramses—dumbest name I'd ever heard, if you ask me—rammed me in the chest. "Y'see, where I come from, we show seniority with our fists." My back smacked against the metal lockers, and I winced. A girl trying to pull her books from a lower cubby backpedaled hastily, scrambling on her hands and feet. At least it was a relatively unpopular hallway.

"If you're into Neanderthal displays of masculinity . . ." Annabeth had taught me that one, and the scoff I received in answer proved its effectiveness.

"Coming from the guy failing half his classes with a murder rap sheet?" Ramses held his forearm to my throat and I choked violently, backpack slipping off my shoulder onto the ground with a solid _thud. _"What does blood feel like? Does it feel like water? Or is it thicker?"

I gagged, but not from the lack of air. The world started blurring, and suddenly I couldn't keep Ramses' stubble-covered chin and brooding hazel eyes straight. I felt sick, like I was going to throw up, and lightheaded, like I was going to swoon. _What does blood feel like? Does it feel like water?_

I was drowning in blood. It invaded my lungs, filling them, and I struggled to cough it up. Annabeth's frantic screams from outside the aquarium fueled my arms to pommel the glass until _they _bled. The redness was everywhere. I couldn't see. I was floating, suspended in the thick of it. I could barely make out the silhouette of my companion and soulmate on the other side, banging a rock against it, crying out my name.

"Stop!" someone was screaming. "You win! Stop!"

I came to with Ramses under the onslaught of my fists. Someone was pulling me off him, and I went limp. Ramses' face was cut up and covered in blood. His nose looked broken, and his jaw was turning purple on the left side. He was crying.

"You're a monster!" he yelled, voice distorted as he spit out blood. "You probably killed the Sergeant for the hell of it, didn't you?"

Something must have changed on my face, because Ramses didn't say another word as he sprinted down the hallway in fear.

I looked up at my stepfather's face. Paul saw the look in my eyes and sighed. "It'll be a hard fight, but I'll get Principal Rolland to give you another shot. This is extraneous circumstances." He patted me on the back and told me to take the car back home.

I gratefully complied. Mom was still at work when I got back, so I gave her a call and she sighed, asking if I could pick her up once I relaxed. She had a migraine that made it impossible to see straight. She had a huge meeting about the future of the company first, so I shouldn't worry about it for a few hours.

I turned on the TV, but my case was on the news. I flipped through the channels, only to find stupid and gory crap. I wasn't in the mood for a video game. When I heated up some mac and cheese in the microwave, only to pick at it until the noodles were cold, I decided it was time to hit the road for some R & R.

We needed groceries, so I played the good son and decided to hit the store. I tucked a knife under my shirt as a precaution (in crowds, Riptide was almost useless) and set out.

But while picking up cans of soup, I spotted a woman steering her daughter away from me. When she asked why she couldn't say hello to the boy, the mother scolded, "You've seen the news. That's the legal killer they keep talking about."

Tears were hot in my eyes as I fled the aisle, soup forgotten.

Within seconds, water was streaming down my face. I hastened toward the bathroom, which I was lucky enough to be a single cubicle with a latching door. I left the cart outside and hid inside, slumping against the door and sliding down it.

My heart pounded, and my chest was heavy with guilt. Why did everyone think I had done it because I wanted to? He was trying to kill me! I defended myself. What was so wrong about that?

I clenched my fists and tried to breathe evenly. It wasn't happening. I wanted to rip my heart out, or run a hundred miles really fast, or fight a monster, or _something _to make this gods-damned tension go away. I crushed my eyelids closed, biting back a scream. In a fit of rage, I took the knife from my belt and flung it at the wall. It clattered against it, and then to ground.

I hissed. I'd nicked the inside of my wrist by accident, and a tiny droplet of blood welled from the cut. I started to wipe it away on my shirt when I realized something.

I was relaxed.

My eyes shot back to the knife. Already, acknowledging my easiness was bringing back the stress, and I wanted to kick the wall. Or . . . or . . .

My knees hit the tile floor hard and I picked up the dagger, cradling it in my hands in a daze. My throat constricted. I started to grip it, but I shook my head and slammed it back down. "That's not the answer, Percy," I told myself.

_Oh, who are you kidding? It won't bring Scott back, sure, but it won't hurt anybody else. Well, at least not anyone who doesn't deserve it._

The voice was louder than it had ever been before, like it had found a megaphone in the recesses of my mind and was screaming into it. All other thought fled from it like it carried the plague. I felt my fingers tense around the handle and forced air through my nose. "No." It was one word, but it had so much power.

The voice was quiet for a half-second until I lowered my guard, and then, _you do realize she's only with you out of pity? You were the Hero of Olympus when you hooked up. Now you're a retarded murderer whose report card spells out "FFFFF."_

It was like a chisel on the one crack in the glass vase. I burst into tears again, trembling with the effort to hold the knife away from me. I shook my head. "You're wrong," I insisted, too stricken to understand that I was _arguing with myself. _"Annabeth loves me. We're going to get married."

_Yeah, one day. Far off in the fairy-tale distance. What's to stop her from finding someone more deserving than you? Who will you lean on then?_

My breath hitched. "No one." I lifted the knife and studied the glow of it in fluorescent lighting. It was luminescent, almost blinding. The handle was utterly simple, jutting straight down with leather wrapped around it to absorb sweat. The hilt was less than an inch on either side, and it was one-sided. The one side was razor sharp.

I thought of Scott's pale face. His seizure. His widow's estranged wails when she discovered his death. My classmates disbelieving looks. The pitying glances my closest friends gave me. The eggshells surrounding me when ever someone talked to me on anything other than a spiffy day. And then before that, at thirteen when I let Nico's little sister die. Watched Zoe get thrown by her own father. Stood idle as Ethan swore into the Titan's army. Saw my friend's shrouds. Abandoned Beckondorf. Stood useless beside Clarisse as she cradled a dying Silena in her arms. Michael Yew falling from the bridge _I _destroyed. So many demigods and Huntresses crumpled under the clubs of the Giant War. So many dead.

All because of me.

_It's the least you can do, _the voice pointed out reasonably. _After everything you've put them through, the least you can do is experience a little pain yourself. Physical doesn't count for shit emotionally, though. But that part's my job. _I could see a small, green imp in the back of my mind simper at that last.

Constant encouragement showered me from my own head until, shakily, I lifted the dagger to my arm. Closed my eyes. Sucked in a deep breath and—

"Hey!" someone banged on the door. "You've been in there forever! Hurry up! My kid has to go bad."

I snapped up and hid the knife reflexively. Mortals tended to see guns and grenades in the place of Celestially-forged weapons; it was only natural to hide it. When I realized I was alone, in a closed room with a tuck sheathed behind my back that I had fully intended to cut myself with not ten seconds prior, I balked.

In a fit of panic, I flushed the toilet, turned on the water, and doused my face with it. I hastened outside, squeezing past a burly man and his cute, pigtails-wearing daughter, who did the pee-pee dance while holding his hand. She gave me a meek smile.

The man didn't recognize me. He just soldiered in with the little girl in tow, and I sighed, finding my cart and returning to grocery shopping.

* * *

After I loaded everything into the fridge and sorted through the groceries, ensuring I'd bought everything on the list with some fierce scrutiny of the paper. My dyslexia had let up with my teenage years, but not by much; English letters still had a tendency to float up and away from the page.

With everything in order, I collapsed on the couch. And buried my face in my hands.

I couldn't _believe _how close I'd come to . . . to . . . Gods, I couldn't even think it straight without feeling like an idiot. Where did I get off, thinking it was okay to hurt myself? Yeah, loss of blood was majorly helpful when arguing for your life on the stand, Jackson. I was just happy someone had interrupted me before I could make a huge mistake.

I took the knife out and set it in front of me, wincing when I poked my back. Once again, I got that jolt of liveliness from it. It scared me.

My eyes drifted to the phone. _Anytime, _Annabeth had said. Well, wanting to drag a knife against my own skin was definitely a "serious call," but I hesitated. I hadn't _done _anything. Why would I bother her with something that hadn't actually happened? She'd probably get mad anyway, and Paul warned me to tread carefully for a few days. Brand new fiancés could uncover parts of one another they hadn't expected.

Oh, gods. Parts I hadn't expected. Me, cutting.

I shook my head and exhaled sharply. I hadn't gone through with it; the moment of emotional vulnerability was past, and I was okay. I was okay. I was okay.

"I'm okay."

Even as the words tumbled past my lips, I knew they were a lie.

* * *

Every day after school, I went back to the grocery store under the precedent of "picking up snacks." And every time, I spent at least three minutes in that single-toilet bathroom contemplating a knife I never should have drawn. Debating the benefit of a distracting sting overcoming the ongoing nothingness that seemed to pervade my every waking moment.

After a month of suffering from a nonexistent masochism, Paul interrupted dinner with, "Your lawyer called today."

I spit out my mouthful of fried chicken. "What?"

Paul winced at my affronted expression. "Sorry. That just slipped out. Our appointment is tomorrow after school. His name is Digby Marchand."

I nodded and pushed my plate away. "Okay. I'll be ready."

I ditched school after Paul's class and took the bus to the grocery store. Five minutes of holding the knife against paid off with nothing but an indentation that disappeared almost immediately.

I was back at school in time to meet Paul, who asked where I had been at lunch. I said I'd walked the neighborhood, which he accepted.

The meeting with my lawyer—an atypical attorney dressed with a loose-fitting tie with a pudgy midsection and messy desk—was barely a blip in my memory afterwards. Despair clouded every word that spilled from my lips, and I was in an unending daze. He examined my case file with determined carefulness, as though afraid that missing an article word would result in my execution.

It probably would.

"I'll admit," Digby began with pursed lips. "Your record is not ideal for this. This reflects prior delinquent behavior, and although there hasn't been an incident for a couple years, it is a biasing fact. The prosecution will use this in their case." He held up my transcripts for emphasis.

"Isn't that irrelevant?" Paul asked fearfully. "I mean, Percy's record doesn't have any convictions or arrests."

"Yes, but it does have expulsions, suspensions, and suspected criminal behavior. I'm sure your son has perfect explanations for these, but I can't bring him on the stand about it because of its irrelevancy."

"Then why are we even discussing it?" Mom said, tone clipped more than I was used to.

Digby sighed. "Because even if the prosecution brings it up in passing, it will have an effect on the jury. We'll have plan for that."

"That's despicable," Paul spat.

Digby deflated. "There's a reason I'm a defending attorney. I'm very careful not to take cases that are guilty, but in cases like Mr. Jackson, I fight to see justice done. It's nauseating how many innocents go to prison because the prosecution has a heavier wallet while psychopaths walk free for the same reason. It's why I'm in law. You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power to see your son cleared of all charges."

I tapped my knee as my leg anxiously and stared at the leaning bird tipping into a glass of water. Water. My element. When was the last time I had been swimming? Not for a while. I might want to try that. Clear my head.

_You wouldn't do that to the ocean, would you?_

My eyes burned, but I refused to cry in the presence of a complete stranger. I didn't even do that in front of my parents, save for the school days that were inconceivably hard to endure. In that moment, I would have preferred being home writing the English paper that was late by five days.

"I know you've already given a statement a million times." Digby interrupted my train of thought, which wasn't much more than, _you're a worthless sack of shit, Jackson. Go die in a hole. _"but could you tell me too?"

So I related the events with a dead tone, lacking inflection or sincerity. I couldn't afford emotion, lest I come unraveled again, like I had every night in my room while Mom and Paul were asleep. Not rocking myself in the corner and sobbed, the urge to grab a knife and spill warm redness all over the carpet next to impossible to deny.

When I was done, Digby nodded and set down his pen. "Alright. I can tell you are all tired and homesick. You can go. Meet me the same time tomorrow."

Tomorrow was Saturday.

I dreamed of being back in the pool, treading water as ghostly apparitions flickered around the edge. Bianca di Angelo kicked her feet in the water, sending ripples toward me. Lee Fletcher was stroking the feathers of an arrow and eyeing me with a scowl. Castor, Pollux's twin brother, leaned against the railing. Zoe Nightshade was dressed in her usual translucent silver clothes, dark hair braided with a circlet on her forehead, sitting on the benches. The massive, lumbering shape of Bob, formerly Iapetus, loomed by the door, arms crossed over his chest. Calypso sang a Greek ballad about a deluded boy who didn't understand why no one would acknowledge him as a hero, even though whenever he waved, they saw his hands stained red. Reyna patted Scipio's mane sadly, wearing the armor she had perished in.

Bob was the first to speak. _You were never a friend, _he said. _You never cared about Bob. Only that I could help you. And now Small Bob is dead, and I am alone. You left me alone._

Zoe hummed along to Calypso's song. _Thee almost earned my trust. But thee is worse than Heracles; thee does not just treat people terribly, but thee leaves behind pleasant memories with thy kind deeds that expire into bitterness once they have faded from thy mind. _She looked up at me. _You shattered Nico di Angelo's heart when you allowed his sister to sacrifice herself. All would have better for it if thy had gone instead. Coward._

Bianca chuckled absently. _I was reconsidering the Hunt. I might have gone back to Nico, eventually. I missed him. _She, too, met my eyes with disappointment. _Then I died._

_Yeah, _Lee agreed. _I was going to ask Frankie from Demeter out. Then I got clubbed. That sucked._

Luke threw back his head of blond hair with a bitter laugh. _At least Frankie wasn't making googly eyes at someone else over your dead body. _He met my eyes with burning hatred, but his eyes were as blue as the day he'd been born. _And now Annabeth knows what you're capable of. I'd known it the whole time, knew how easy it would be to corrupt you. She didn't see. No one else saw._

_Have you given my brother a passing thought? _Castor asked from his place by the railing. His eyes were cold and dead as they studied me.

Lee and Bianca produced bows from behind themselves while Zoe just raised hers, fully notched. The sound of bowstrings being pulled taunt echoed throughout the pool room. Suddenly, Scott emerged from his office, blood staining his throat and reaching for me. _Murderer. _No one person said it. All their voices contributed, but none opened their mouth.

_Revenge. _Bob chanted.

_Penance, _Zoe incanted.

_Repayment. _Bianca breathed into her notching of an arrow.

_Perdition, _Lee sang eerily.

_Repentance, _Luke whispered as he watched my floating form as the archers took aim.

_Paladin, _Castor supplied sarcastically, rage burning in the orbs of his eyes.

Scott smirked at me, face bloody and nauseating, and raised his hand like he was about to single the swim team to start. _Murderer._

The arrows flew.

* * *

Mom and Paul were out of the house more often than they were in it.

"Is it a problem?" Mom asked as she slung her purse over her shoulder. Her hair was fixed in a curled bun while Paul wore a crisp suit. "We'll be back in plenty of time for the appointment."

I collapsed on the couch and switched on _ABC _network to a sitcom. "Yeah. Great. Just go."

Mom looked reluctant to leave me, but she sighed and let Paul lead her out the door. He shot me a warm smile just before he closed the door. "Call the theater if you need us. You know which play we're seeing, right?"

"Yeah," I muttered. "_Letters._"

Paul nodded, bid me goodbye, and shut the door. A second later, the deadbolt latched. I waited for my parents' footsteps to fade away before curling into a ball while Barney Stinson sang about suits, and burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," I breathed between my knees. "Luke, Bob, Calypso, Castor, Lee . . . all of you. I'm sorry. I'm a murderer."

The confession, ironically enough, didn't leave me feeling lighter.

_Don't forget the others, _the voice taunted. _There's Bianca too. And Damasen. And Reyna._

I nodded, sobbing uncontrollably. "Luke, Bob, Calypso, Castor, Lee, Bianca, Damasen, Reyna."

_Keep going._

"Sergeant Scott. I should have had better control. I'm so sorry."

_More._

"The monsters."

_Which ones?_

"Polyphemus. Ahkkys. The Minotaur. Phineas. All of them."

_You're not done yet._

"Kelli. Tammy. All of them." I rose to my feet in a trance as the voice roared encouragement from the recesses of my mind. I could feel its cold fingers curling around my consciousness, no longer a guilty whisper from the edges of my mind but a full-fledged part of me, a separate individual part of the whole that was Percy Jackson. I knew how insane it was to think that—to _know _that—but I didn't care. It was the truth, and I wasn't going to shy from it.

I recited the names of my victims as I shut the door, grabbing my wallet and knife but forgetting my keys. I broke into a dead run, tearing down the stairs and into the street.

As I ran, I could feel the ever present knife pressing against my backside.

* * *

The alley reeked of stale beer, drugs, sex, and human filth. The homeless man against the wall watched me pass warily. I gave a beggar a dollar from my wallet and disappeared farther into the shadow.

My nostrils burned from the stench, but I didn't cover my nose or try to breathe more shallowly. The guilt was clamped around my lungs, and I couldn't breathe enough to think clearly or understand what I was doing. I just hid behind an under populated dumpster, leaned against the wall, and drew the knife.

A homeless guy opposite me watched as I worked up my nerve. The chill of Celestial bronze infiltrated my skin, spreading like a drop of water through a napkin.

"I can't do this anymore," I told the vagrant. I didn't know why I was confiding in a man who had a white line against his entire face with an expression less empathic than a statue. "It's so much . . . I'd rather go through Tartarus again than deal with this." The scary part was: That was the truth. "I can't feel anything but guilt anymore. I have to get out of this. All of this. I . . ." My voice caught.

I closed my eyes. The pain in my chest was unbearable. I had to end it. I had to stop it. I had to. . . .

Red exploded in my eyes before the agony receptors screamed in my mind. I hadn't moved my hand deliberately as much as out of desperation and now a wound oozing blood colored my left forearm. Right across SPQR. The black burn of Rome was accentuated by the red stain of grief and . . . and . . .

Self-harm. I'd just self-harmed.

My vision cleared, but I still felt woozy. Not knowing what I was thinking, I brought the knife down on my arm a second time. A shallower, more stinging cut. Then again, right under the vein of the elbow. That one did it. I felt consciousness rush from me like air from a popped balloon and slumped against the wall.

The homeless guy stole my knife from my limp fingers and left me to die.

* * *

I woke up to a policeman patting my cheek frantically. "Hey, there, son," he said. Beside him, a paramedic cleaned up my arm. "What happened?"

My eyes fluttered open on his lean face with bright green eyes, like emeralds in the darkness of the alley. A foul smell reached my nose and I gagged. "Where am I?"

The policeman nodded glumly. "An alley off West Forth. You were pretty bloody when we found you, but we cleaned you up pretty thoroughly. You've been a missing person for thirteen hours."

I blinked. My cognition was slow. "What? I don't—"

"You must have been attacked and not remember it. You suffered a frightening loss of blood, there, son. Do you remember who did it?"

"Loss of blood . . . ?" A paramedic wrapped my arm in bandages. I gaped at him as the memory flooded back, the voice whispering encouragements as I staggered into the alley, half-delirious with guilt, drew my knife, and . . . "There was a knife," I blurted, hoping for my weapon.

The policeman shook his head. "I figured, but we didn't find one. Your attacker must have left with it. Can you remember his face?"

_Don't say it. _"No," I lied. The policeman nodded and helped me to my feet.

"Do you need the hospital?"

I shook my head. I didn't want doctors looking at my wounds and realizing something wasn't adding up. "I'm fine." I could feel the metaphysical pile of lies adding up. I shoved them into a mental closet and slammed it. One day, they'd topple over and kill me, but not today. "Just a little confused."

"A concussion?"

"I know what concussions feel like," I said, distracted as the paramedic taped the bandage down. "This isn't one."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Can I go home?"

"Your parents are waiting just across the yellow tape."

Sure enough, Mom was hanging onto Paul's arm so tight the man was constantly grimacing. They still wore their nice clothes. Mom cried out in joy and tears when she saw me, hugging me so tight I couldn't breathe for a minute. Paul clapped me on the upper arm and took my bandaged forearm worriedly. "Monster?" he asked.

I nodded. He didn't have to know that _this _monster came from inside my own head. "He's gone." _For now._

I looked back to the alley as Mom and Paul led me away, asking me a slew of questions I made up a slew of answers to. I wanted to tell myself I'd never do it again, but my gut knotted a lightly _too _lightly on that lie. Apparently, it would always peek out at me through the shutters of my closet door.

And I'd always be peaking back.


	3. Part III

**A Forced Hand**

_Part III_

_"Depression is the inability to construct a future." - Rollo May_

I was ready to throw up the entire car ride home.

Guilt ate at me until I almost blurted out the truth, but the voice broke through before I could. _Go ahead, Jackson. Make it worse. Like they already don't find you disgusting for murder, now let's tell them that you're resorting to cowardly stress relievers. Be my guest. _I bit my tongue instead and fielded each of my parents' worried remarks and questions with halfhearted replies. Eventually, they realized I didn't want to talk.

It must have seemed rude, the way I shouldered into the apartment the second Paul opened it and stormed into my room without so much as a "Thanks." But I had to get away. Self-disgust was thickening in the pit of my stomach, and I only _just _held the bile back in my throat long enough to reach the trashcan in my room to heave. The foul odor filled the room, almost worse than the stale beer I could still remember back when Mom had still been married to Smelly Gabe. I sat back on my heels, forehead pressing against the rim of the bin. I ignored the smell.

A series of knocks cut the silence of my room. "Percy?" Mom asked. "Are you alright, sweetheart? Do you want to watch a movie with Paul and me, or . . . ?"

"No!" It came out more scared than I'd wanted it to. "I just don't feel well. Please, let me stay in for a few hours?"

"Alright," Mom said with only a handful of seconds' hesitation. "Just come out when you feel better. Do you want me to start baking some cookies?"

I threw up again just thinking about it.

"Percy?" Mom sounded suspicious. "That sounded like you were getting sick. Are you sure . . . ?"

"Just the stereo," I lied. "I'm fine. Just give me some space, okay?"

I could tell Mom was reluctant, but she said, "Okay" and I heard nothing further from my household.

There was a few more foul tasting and smelling vomiting sessions, but eventually my stomach cooled down to a neutral unsteadiness and I could relax in bed. Part of me was exhausted and wanted to sleep, but most wanted to get up and run. Particularly away from the insane levels of guilt suffocating me in my stingy eight by twelve room. I needed to get out. I needed to breathe.

It didn't help that I kept remembering how much of a relief the cuts had been. In the heat of the moment, there was only pain and desperation, but retrospect showed a frightening truth; it let me calm down. It was like, through every drop of blood I shed, a little bit more of the stress and discontent I'd been harboring was released. But in its wake, it left a hole wider and deeper than before. I could sense a cycle trying to develop and refused to let it.

I heard a knock on the front door. The voices on the television cut off abruptly, and I heard the door open, followed by my mother's surprised, "Leo!"

I bolted upright, bracing my hands on the mattress and swinging my legs partway off the bed. What was Leo doing here? Most of the time—actually, make that _all _of the time—Leo only dropped by when he had reinforcements, despite his shameless infatuation with my mother's blue-dye brownies. "Better than Camp Merpeople," he'd said jokingly; just to get on my nerves.

But showing up out of the blue, alone? Even for Leo, that was odd. I listened closely to what he said through the door.

"Hey, I saw a bunch of cops around here and wanted to check up. Everything okay?"

"Percy isn't feeling too well at the moment. A monster surprised him in the street and the police found him."

"Yikes. Can I talk to him?"

"Let me check." I heard my mother's heeled footsteps on the tiled flooring. Then she called in, "Percy, Leo's here. He wants to talk to you. Is that okay?"

The voice was having a coronary in my head, and that was as good a reason as any. "Sure. Might be able to make a stupid joke."

Leo walked in wearing his army jacket unzipped over a dress shirt and slacks. He was even wearing a tie. I had no idea what had gotten into his head—Leo was the least professional out of the entire Seven, and that was saying a lot—but even his tool belt was MIA. He looked nervous without it, like he was a wearing a costume that chafed.

"Hey," he greeted, loosening his tie. "I heard about the monster."

I nodded. "Yeah. Came out of nowhere. Didn't really have time to react."

If I hadn't been positive Leo had no way of knowing the truth, I might have thought he suspected it by the dubious way his face crawled into hard chiseled lines. It seemed like working in the forges had finally had its affect on Leo's musculature; his arms were thicker, face weathered by war and age. A thin line of white wound its way from his nose to his ear, the price he'd paid by throwing himself at the mercy of a living tree when it tried to kill Hazel. He'd suffered more serious injuries at the time, but the one cut on his face was the only one that stayed. The way it lied just under his eye gave the impression of experience and maturity far beyond his years, even if Leo was still the immortal jokester.

He didn't look it right then, though. He looked tired, worn out, and above all, unhappy. His smile was ghostly as his lips, barely any effort put behind the tugging of his mouth into a semicircle. As he leaned against my dresser with studied nonchalance, I knew he was hiding something under the impassive expression, and not very well.

"You okay, man?" I asked. Leo chuckled humorlessly and nodded. "I'm serious. You look . . . depressed. Did something happen? Why are you wearing a suit?"

Leo smirked dryly. "Apparently, my dad decided to _not _be a deadbeat for once. He's got a grandson or something in a major corporation, and he offered to pay my way through MIT or Stanford or whatever I wanted."

I couldn't believe it. For demigods, passing the next test with a high enough score to get a C- was a huge deal. But getting a full ride at a prestigious college? That was something even Annabeth would be envious for. "That's awesome!" I exclaimed. But Leo's face didn't look "awesome." "What's wrong?"

"I—they won't pay unless I agree to sign a ten-year contract after I graduate."

I shrugged. Granted, I wasn't an engineer, but that seemed like a pretty good deal. "So? You can work on your side projects anyway. Isn't that what you always do?"

I could tell there was a lot more to it than that. Leo looked like he was as guilty as I felt, meeting my eyes pleadingly and opening his mouth hopelessly. "Dude, I—" He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck, loosening the tie further. "I don't want to be like Odysseus or Drake."

"What does Odysseus have to do with—?" Then it smacked me across the face. Jason told me on our way to Athens that Leo had been pitched overboard by Khione, the ice goddess, and when they found him again in Malta, he was pensive and different. The words "marooned" struck a familiar chord with me, but I decided not to say anything. It was once every few hundred years, after all. Why would it make sense for Leo to have been stranded on Ogygia, what, less than three years after me?

But Odysseus' name was all I needed to know. Odysseus had been the first hero to grace Calypso's cursed shores and fall in love with her, staying for seven years until his wife Penelope drew him away. I was sure Drake was the guy before me.

And I was the guy before Leo. But judging by the way Leo didn't meet my eyes, he wasn't like the others. Calypso hadn't been a sweet girl who captured his interest until conflicting duties pulled him away permanently. It hadn't been like me, when I wanted to see her happy, but not with me really involved in that. Leo had the same look I'd gotten when I thought of Annabeth while I was amnesiac. An expression that could only be described as homesick.

He was really and truly in love with the daughter of Atlas.

"Whoa," I said.

Leo nodded glumly.

"No wonder you've been acting odd." Something dawned on me. "But I asked Zeus to free her. What about—?"

Leo shrugged, and bitterness flashed across his face. It settled so easily over it that I half-believed it had been lurking under the surface as long as I'd known him, just very well disguised. "He left her. She stills pines after you," Leo added, heartbroken. "I couldn't bring up your name without her getting all sad. She hates me."

"You wouldn't have been on her island if that was the case," I reminded him. "It's only people she falls in love with."

"I'm going to find her," he told me, meeting my eyes with such dogged determination that I was absolutely convinced. "Soon. I promised that we'd start a shop together."

"That explains it." I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair. "I'm the last guy to come to about relationship advice. I don't have a lot of sense when it comes to love. Loving Annabeth, I could write you a badly spelled paper, but love? That's Piper's thing."

"Piper'd gush."

"She's not the type."

Leo gave me a look. "Aphrodite is like a disease," he told me. "Everyday, she wears a little more makeup. I talked to her when she was wearing a dress once—of her _own _volition."

We shared a laugh at the absurdity of that one. Piper might have been a daughter of beauty, but she had always tried to cover it up. There was probably cruel mischief involved there.

Silence fell between us and I sighed. "We'll get Calypso," I promised. "I'm not going to fail her again."

Leo nodded. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it. And I'm guessing don't take the job?"

"You'll get a scholarship," I predicted. "We just have to Mist your transcripts or something."

Leo, apparently, was already working on an invention. Typical Valdez.

* * *

I missed Annabeth.

We hadn't been on a date after I'd "proposed" in the library, and I was getting a strange version of homesickness. Annabeth called me pretty soon after I slashed up my arms, and I banished that knife from my sight with the promise of calling her any time I felt like doing it again. And that worked, except for the fact that Annabeth was exponentially more busy than me; she was already hassling with college applications and essay writing on top of her current workload, so whenever I phoned her hotel, she gave me a few words of explanation, and heartfelt "I love you," and then she had to say goodbye. Hearing her voice was still a pick-me-up, and I clung to it like a drowning man to his life-saver-and like a drowning man, I didn't realize that I was hurting her in the process.

It was Saturday afternoon, two weeks after I cut. I wore a jacket over the couple scars I still had, happy to find that the ambrosia my mother fed me faded the wounds significantly so I could walk around in public without long sleeves and not feel overly self-conscious. I was in my living room with the TV playing in the background—Paul's eyes were fixed on it while my mother sat next to him, typing like a madwoman at her laptop—miming a relaxed sword-fight with an imaginary sword against an imaginary foe. Lasagna was cooking in the oven, and I was killing time until dinner. Midway through a grandiose swipe, someone knocked on the door.

I pulled up short, arm hovering in midair with my fingers curled around the sword I didn't actually hold, and glanced at the door with a frown. Shrugging, I dropped my arm and walked over to get the door. I swung it open when our visitor was rapping their knuckles on the door for a second go, and beamed when I saw who it was.

Annabeth had her arms crossed self-consciously over her chest, a blue blouse I'd never seen her in buttoned up her front. A grey skirt ended at her knees, and she wore heels and nylons, looking about as comfortable as Tyson would in an optometrist's office. Her blonde hair was secured in a tight bun behind her head, and a dusting of makeup accented her eyes. "Hey," she greeted, voice quiet and insecure. "I think we need to talk."

I nodded, stepping out of the way as she ambled inside. Mom set the laptop down long enough to run over and hug Annabeth in greeting. Paul smiled and waved. "Good afternoon, Sally," Annabeth said, a forced smile on her face. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to talk to Percy alone."

"Certainly." Mom motioned us into my room, squeezing my shoulder on the way past.

Annabeth led the way to my blue-themed room, walking straight to my sea-patterned bed and sitting down. She smoothed her skirt uneasily. "Percy, what are your plans for college?" Her grey were pleading and fearful as they searched mine.

I blinked, coughing a little to cover my surprise. "Uh . . . NYU, maybe?"

"Have you applied?"

"Well . . ." I pressed my lips into a guilty line and shrugged. "Other things keep coming up."

Annabeth sighed weakly and buried her face in her hands. For a moment, I thought she was laughing at me—that's what she usually did when I overlooked something—but the sounds of heartbroken sobbing reached my ears and I was on my knees in front of her, pulling her into my shoulder and stroking her hair (smelling faintly of lavender shampoo), shushing and consoling her with breathed "I love you"s and "I'm here"s. Annabeth pounded on my chest with her fists halfheartedly.

"Why not?" she asked quietly into my neck. Her arms were crushed between us. "Percy, we're less than five months away from graduation. Why haven't you started applying?"

I didn't understand what was so wrong about my procrastination. "You know I can't remember stuff 'til it's staring me in the face, Annabeth. What's wrong?"

Annabeth shoved off of me, sniffling and wiping her nose shyly. "Because I want to stay with you into old age, and I'm not sure we're going to be able to do that."

I blinked, opening my mouth to reassure her, only to close it again. "What? Annabeth, is this one of those weird-connections-to-bad-stuff that you told me girls did to screw with guys?"

Annabeth gave a frustrated cry and pushed me away, surging to her feet and starting to pace. "How _dense _and _daft _. . . ? Percy, I've told you about The Southern California Institute of Architecture, right?"

I frowned and nodded. "It's your dream college, right? In . . . LA, right? What about it?"

Annabeth crossed her arms and turned on me, looking determined as she glared a hole through my eyes. "You said you wanted NYU. You know those colleges are on _completely _different sides of the country, right?"

I sat down on the mattress. "Yeah. So—_oh._" It smacked me in the face when my eyes caught the dolphin band on Annabeth's ring finger. Its sapphire eyes stared at me like, _Duh. _"Jeez, I never even thought about that. I could always go to California for it . . ."

"What's your major?" she demanded.

"Huh?"

"Your major. Gods, Percy, have you given _any _thought to this?" Her words hurt a little, like she was deliberately trying to insult my intelligence. It wasn't teasing or chastising; it sounded mean and derisive.

"I, uh . . . Most people don't decide on their major until, like, Sophomore Year."

"So you're sheep?" Annabeth groaned exasperatedly and threw her hands in the air. "What are your passions?"

"Er . . . surviving?"

She glowered at me.

"Well, sea animals, obviously. And horses. But that's 'cuz of my dad . . ."

"Marine biology, then?"

"Annabeth, my dyslexia—"

"—doesn't define you," she finished, eyes flashing like they did when someone really started pissing her off. I recoiled as she breathed heavier, shaking her head at me with her lips parted, like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words to convey her disbelief. "Are you a _complete _idiot? Where's your plan? What are you doing with your life? Working at Subway?"

"No!" I protested, coming to my feet at my defense. "Why are you suddenly so antagonistic, anyway?"

"Antagonistic?" she echoed, flicking me in the forehead. "Apparently, _something _of intelligence has rubbed off on you, however minuscule and fleeting."

"You know I don't like thinking ahead, Annabeth."

"And you know you have to!" Annabeth cried, and there were tears in her eyes anew as she looked at me, as though begging me to do something. I wish I knew what. "You can't be shortsighted in this world, Percy. You have to get where you want to go before everyone else. That's how it works. And if you choose poorly or unwisely, then it's your own damn fault for not seeing it sooner." Her eyes overflowed and her lips were a thin, quivering line. My heart stumbled over its beats when I realized she wasn't talking about school anymore.

"Annabeth—" I said, wanting to take everything I said back. Wanting to turn the clock back and start over.

She shook her hand and backed away toward my door. "I have dreams, Percy," she muttered brokenly. "Goals. I've planned all my life for them. I _am _an architect, Percy. I love you, but . . ." She looked down at her left hand and closed her hand. I watched in horror as she strained the promise ring from her finger and handed it to me. My arms hung uselessly at my sides as I gaped at her. "Call me when you get your act together. Then we'll talk about a future."

The ring _clinked _on my wooden floor as Annabeth walked out of my bedroom and, with a sincere farewell to Mom and Paul, out of my life.

* * *

I should have cried. I had just lost the one thing in my entire life I had ever been certain of; I had to grieve. But for some reason, the tears wouldn't come. Neither would the betrayal and hurt that was bound to overwhelm me eventually.

Mom whispered comforting things to me until I asked her to leave, and Paul stood in the doorway with a lost expression on his face. Mom led him back into the living room and shut the door.

I fell to my knees as memories consumed me.

_We leaned over the railing of the _Argo II, _naming constellations and acknowledging our friend, Zoë Nightshade, in her place among the heavens. I held Annabeth's hand and said, "I love you too."_

_She started. "What?"_

_"I love you too," I said. "Back in Tartarus, everything was happening really quickly and I never got the chance to say it. But I love you too."_

_Annabeth smiled faintly, a musical laugh spilling past her parted lips as she tugged me into a kiss, draping her arms over my shoulders lazily. "I knew that," she told me. "but thanks anyway. And thanks for not letting me go."_

_"Never," I promised._

Another broken vow.

_I hurt all over, and my vision was pure white. But I felt something on my hand, something steadying and anchoring to the world. "Annabeth . . ." I choked before dissolving into a fit of coughs._

_Her fingers combed my hair from my face, and I felt them tingle on my forehead. "Apollo will be here any minute, Percy. Hang on."_

_"Stay . . ."_

_"I'll never leave you."_

Promises shattered like glass.

_"My weak point," I admitted, laying awake in bed with Annabeth next to me. "It's you."_

_"What?" Annabeth sat bolt upright and stared at me, grey eyes misunderstanding. "Are you trying to break up with me?"_

_"No!" I sat up too. "When I was in the Styx, I had to focus on something to hold me to the mortal world—and not just a part of my back. It was you. You pulled me up. You're my anchor."_

_Annabeth opened her mouth to answer, but closed it and her eyes twinkled. "Don't sail off without me, then, okay?"_

Thrown off course by a whirlwind of betrayal. My heart pounded in my chest, trying to boil my blood against Annabeth . . . but it wouldn't work. I knew the truth; my inactivity had splintered us apart. I was too lazy, too sightless to realize that my indecision was hurting Annabeth. Guilt swelled in my chest and I wanted, truly wanted, to die.

Then my legs were repelling off the cold wooden tile and my feet were padding across my bedroom, stopping in front of my dresser as I knelt and my hands were pulling the bottom-most drawer open. It was full of my old clothes, mostly Camp Half-Blood tees holding too much sentimental worth to throw away, and weapons that had fallen into disuse. My fingers curled around an ornate knife handle, and my mind didn't even object as I rose again, holding the weapon with determination.

I rolled my left sleeve up, staring at the preexisting scars with desensitized longing. I remembered the rush of relief it had given me, that day in the alley with guilt compelling my movements. I wondered if it would work in reverse, too.

You never knew unless you tried.

I closed my eyes and lowered the edge to my flesh, just above my elbow and dangerously close to the vein. Before, it had been an emotional reprieve; now, it was a deliberate, conscious decision, one I prolonged as the sting flared to life when my skin was first pierced. And then came the burn that seeped into the rest of me, a reviving burst of life in the spite of numbness that pervaded my whole in seconds. The pain was intoxicating, like a trip of adrenaline after a long night. I laughed giddily, heady with the onset of feeling overcoming me in waves of sadness and remorse and grief and regret. At that moment, they felt better than the happiest times of my life.

"Gods," I gasped as I came down from the high. "It's not so bad after all." I etched a twin mark above the former, filled with the same boost, body reinvigorated like cool water down my back, splashing my face. _How _had I lived without this for so long?

For a little while, my troubles didn't exist. The guilt of taking Scott's life, the stress from school and society, the trial, losing Annabeth . . . they road the backseat as I basked in the salvation of my pain. I threw my head and cackled in euphoria, vision awash with vibrancy as the world took on a different light, everything suddenly sharper than ever before. I couldn't believe how enlightening this was.

But then the high was gone, like all trips, and I was left drained with nothing but an ongoing tingling my arm. Suddenly weak, I grabbed a few tissues and pressed them onto my bloody elbow, staring off into the distance and remembering the way Annabeth's ring had fallen to the ground like the period at the end of a very good book you'd never wanted to end.

I stared at the band as I pulled my sleeve back down and dozed off against my dresser.

* * *

There was a Marine Biology club at Goode, and I signed up that Monday. But I rapidly discovered that, for all my incentive to save the oceans, I couldn't endure the lecture on things I already knew instinctually. It wasn't an option.

I tried a million career-inclined clubs and hated every last one of them. By the end of November, I had tried out seventeen clubs and lost interest in every single one. The only one I hadn't tried was "Pen Power," which was a place for original writing—something that just wasn't a possibility with my dyslexia.

I'd given up, and with giving up on finding a career, I gave up on reconciling with Annabeth.

"Ah!" I screamed, throwing my backpack to the ground in a rage after leaving Photography in the dust. Tears blurred my vision, and I kicked a bench, swearing violently at Olympus, attracting eyes of fear and disdain. "I'm sick of this!" I shouted. "I'm sick of trying to be good at _anything _when I'm good for nothing. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of always being strong and okay. I'm sick of being a hero. I'm sick of it all." I collapsed with my face lost in my palms. "I'm sick of it all."

I leaned back and stared my arms, where a series of worsening scars deformed my arms, my chest, and my legs under my clothes. Each day, I added another cut to my growing list for another failed career, and I dug it in just a bit deeper; the more I bled, the more it worked. I had to get a little more every time just to breathe.

Olympus knew I just wanted to breathe. And, at the exact same time, I wanted to never breathe again.

_I told you she'd leave you, _the voice reminded me. _You insisted I was wrong. You insisted _you _were wrong._

I didn't even try to argue with the Demon Me, nestled comfortably in a suite at the forefront of my mind, choosing silence over action more often than not anymore, as I didn't need the encouragement to hate myself. I just slumped into my hands in defeat.

_Now you're alone, no beautiful woman to keep the tatters of your broken self together. Now you're lost in your mind, with only me to keep you company. _The voice laughed at the irony. _Remind me why you try again? I keep forgetting. Something about "owing the world one more shot?" How many shots is this, now? A hundred? Two?_

I closed my eyes and felt my body fall into the comfortable second-skin of numbness. "Too many," I agreed. "Far too many. _Gods, _I'm so tired. So tired."

And I was. I wanted to lay down on the bench, close my eyes, and sleep until the fall months had passed and another winter rolled into being, until the generations I had planned to contribute to grew wrinkled with bitterness and their subsequent generations faded into obscurity, age after age of advancement occurring without me. I wanted to harden into lifeless stone, a part of the bench, eyes shut as the centuries bled into millennia and the gods lost their power and faded. As The Fates snipped the string of the entire Earth and watched it wither and die before their unbiased, unmerciful eyes.

I had fought The Second Titan War against impossible odds and won, my friends and family paying the ultimate price for my victory. I'd come back under a year later to lose my memory and fight Mother Earth and her twenty-foot offspring, losing even more in the process. I had climbed and clamored through Tartarus, fueled by Annabeth's presence at my side as I thought about lying down and giving up forever. I had bore the burden of that experience the rest of my life, and I had taken a life—right or wrong—because of it. And now, at the worst of it all, when all the pain hiding in my shadow had found me hiding in plain sight, I had lost the only person who could hold my hand and make me believe everything was okay even as it crashed and burned around me.

For the first time in my life, I was really alone. And I hated it, almost as much as I hated myself.

"A hero's fate is never happy," I muttered, lips unfeeling as I focused on the pavement, a plant sprouting in a crack. Tears rolled down my cheeks. "You warned me, father. I should have listened."

I scooped up my backpack and started moving. Where to, I had no idea—just that my feet were carrying me someplace, and I didn't have the mind to stop or ask them why. I just kept going, and I would have continued until there was no longer earth under my feet. And then I would have swam until there was no more water. And I would have walked some more.

But my feet brought me before my judge, jury, and executioner before I hit the water. The Scythian _dracaena_ looked lost, like she had just reformed and was trying to take in everything at once. When she saw me and her serpentine nostrils flared at my demigod scent, she looked confused. Why was I just standing there? Why wasn't I fighting?

I let my backpack drop to the ground unhindered and unzipped my jacket, revealing my slashed-up my arms and turning the undersides outward so there was no secret. My Legion tattoo I had not harmed, however, and the _dracaena _hissed when she saw it. "That iss Roman."

"And I'm Greek. Percy Jackson." I met her inhuman yellow slits without flinched. "Kill me."

She paused for a moment, interpreting what I was saying. And then she pulled back to lunge. Before she could, though, a dark blade spouted from her gut and she froze, looking down in shock as her life force was absorbed into the midnight blade, blinking out the same time she burst into gold powder.

Nico di Angelo stared at me through the dissipating dust with his sword limp at his side and horror etched across his face.


	4. Part IV

**A Forced Hand**

_Part IV_

_"The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing . . . not healing, not curing. . . that is a friend who cares."_

_― Henri Nouwen_

Nico had changed during the time I hadn't seen him—his hair was shorter and cleaner, clothes better-fitted, and skin tanning ever so slightly—but his dark eyes were the same as ever, intense and unnerving with severity and accusation. And as he stood there, sword leeching light from the dimly-lit alleyway—a realization that brought a dull confusion to my numbed mind—as his lips parted in the imitation of speech, though no sound came from them. His expression could be reasonably summarized with "bewilderment"—his mouth was open, eyes wide, facial muscles slack—and a faint tightness fell on my chest, heartbeat pounding like a drum in my ears.

It was like the receding tide, the way my shock dissipated. It went as quickly as it'd come, the barest half-second of gradual warning before I was thrust into the vibrant world of emotion again. The alley exploded like I'd been thrown into the world of Technicolor from a black and white movie screen—the encroaching sunlight warred against the darkness, both preexisting and leaking from the blackness of Nico's sword; the garbage can behind Nico reeked so strongly of rotting meats and spoiled vegetables I almost vomited; an external chill nipped at my bare arms, raising the skin in smalls bumps as I shivered. My heart hammered relentlessly against my aching ribs, breath quickening as terror swallowed my mind whole, blotting out all other thoughts but the pure, animal horror permeating my muscles, fueling my muscles with a sudden burst of strength and energy.

It hadn't been my decision to run as much as it was my body's, but that was irrelevant; without a second word, I'd grabbed my fallen jacket and taken off into the brightness of the city street.

"Percy!"

I didn't stop at Nico's mortified exclamation, turning sharply around the corner and pumping my arms hard at my sides. My red jacket was clenched in my right fist, swaying to and fro as I sprinted across the crosswalk, flashing red. My foot landed on the curb and I risked a glance behind me, at Nico as he skidded to a stop when traffic roared back to life, twelve million cars surging forward as one and cutting him off. His cry was lost in the din.

I ran slower, turning random corners and staying in the brightest light I could, as far away from shadows as I could get. People watched me pass curiously, but I was in a slightly less densely populated area at a time when most people were at work or school. When busy hour struck in thirty minutes, it would be thrumming with energy and life, the throng making it impossible to find any one person if they didn't want to be found. That knowledge gave me small comfort as I slipped between passersby, shrugging back into my jacket and zipping it against the cold persisting even in the brilliant sun.

Sure enough, Rush Hour hit virtually all at once, New York flaring with its iconic jam-packed walkways and congested streets as slanders were exchanged, threats swapped, and voices raised in unceasing passion. I was silent, even as people tried to harass me and start fights. I only walked away with my eyes downcast and my shoulders hunched, determined to just keep going until it was safe to stop.

But one thing hadn't occurred to me as I used daylight as protection against Nico's questions: Nightfall.

Dusk powdered the horizon in darkening oranges and faint yellow splotches that receded quickly, and after that a half moon juxtaposed luminescent white against the monochromatic black of the sky. Once or twice, a star was bright enough to conquer the polluted atmosphere, and I stared at one I was almost certain belonged to the constellation of The Huntress while I sat on a bench under a streetlight. It was a bus stop, but there were no other people around—most had gone to bed or some night club—and I could lie down and attempt to relax, despite the consuming fear of being caught.

To say I was anxious would be a terrible understatement. Despite the neighborhood's general emptiness and the blacked-out windows of the apartment buildings I was surrounded by, I cast furtive glances around every five minutes, as though expecting Nico to magically appear. And although him bleeding out of the shadows was no small possibility, it would be very unlikely for my wily cousin to find me. I had used the throng to the best of my ability, going with the flow rather than against it when it worked, milling aimlessly around with no real destination in mind. But, now that I had outsmarted Nico, what could I do?

For an insane, deluded moment, I considered going back home. But, no, Nico would probably have thought of that; if he cared enough to persist, he was waiting for me at my apartment. If not, my mother was—and that was a conversation I would sooner die than have.

That ruled out all my options, though. I had home and the streets, and if I wouldn't face my mother in my shame, then the only thing to do was to forge ahead in daylight. I could probably hop a subway train with the metro card in my wallet—which was in my pocket, still—and hide my face with my hood until I was out of the red alert zone. It wasn't the first time I'd hidden from the police; I knew the drill. I could stay unseen long enough to fall off the radar, and once I'd done that, there was nothing to fear.

Relaxation was far from approachable, I began to realize despairingly, tossing over on the bench restlessly. I stared at the blue back of the bench in irritation and _harrumphed _about my profoundly unfortunate situation. Never mind that I had systematically dug myself into it.

I threw my legs back over the side and leaned my weight forward in defeat. Brooding and challenging the curb to make my night worse, I noticed a stray shine out of the corner of my eye. I focused in on it and could have cried in relief when I spotted a pile of glittering crystal along the empty. I strode over to it, crouching down and sifting through the finite shards in search of useful one—and sure enough, found one perfect for the job, mostly jagged except for one smooth side with a refined edge my dagger couldn't have compared to.

I had long since stopped hesitating. The burn in my skin was less intense than with the knife, but there was a residual sting that I reveled in, left turned out on my thigh as I brought the glass down repeatedly, my unease filtering out through my blood.

I shut my eyes with a hollow laugh, letting it roll off of nothing and die into silence seconds later. I clenched my fist around the glass, feeling the uneven sides biting into my flesh and drawing more blood. I crushed my eyes even tighter together as tears rolled off my eyelashes, and my chest felt so empty I wanted to scream it into nonexistence.

_You're finished, _the voice told me. _It's over. You were always weak, and you haven't got the gall to keep going at this point. You thought you had nothing before? Think about now. Di Angelo will tell EVERYBODY you're heinous secret, and even more people will turn their backs on you. The only recourse you have is the streets. What is there to lose? _

My hands trembled, blood cooling in the evening chill. "I don't know," I said. To myself, to the voice, to the universe, I wasn't sure. But I said it.

And that resolved it. I opened my hand and examined the crystal, now a faint crimson, with decisive certainty. I set it on the web between my thumb and forefinger, letting it pierce there as much as everywhere else. I pressed the perfect edge against the blue of my vein, and a slow smile crept across my face. I tilted my eyes heavenward and cast wagers with myself on what it would feel like. Fast, abrupt, and painless? Or would those final moments be wracked with unprecedented agony, sucking my inadequacy dry beside the river of pain? Or maybe it would be a slow, building pain, like a headache; getting worse and worse until, at its height, it simply disappeared.

I decided it didn't matter.

"Drop it."

I surged to my feet, wielding the crystal like a weapon as I faced Nico down. But the son of Hades didn't look distressed or pressured into action; he stood there, almost completely relaxed, with his hands in pockets and a head tilt that looked more appropriate on a puppy than the brooding Ghost King. His jacket was partially unzipped, and his ears were whiter than the rest of his face. Occasionally, he'd shudder from a fierce chill, but otherwise, he was unperturbed.

"How did you find me?" I demanded, throwing my weapon—pitiful though it was—before me. Nico wasn't close enough to need to back up.

He glanced at the streetlight and I looked up to see the filament had fried. I was near total darkness, save for the glow of the moon. The only reason I could see was probably because I had unconsciously adjusted while preparing to kill myself.

Nico's eyes wandered to my arm, freshly colored red. And he did something that shocked me. He pulled gauze from his left pocket and some medical tape, stepping past my defense unhindered, and grabbed my elbow before I could push him away. He pressed the white bandage to the plethora of cuts on my forearm and over my Legion tattoo, tearing off some tape with his teeth and binding it to my skin. I was too alarmed to do anything.

"And the other?" he prompted, letting my left arm fall and looking determinedly at my right. I stepped back so my right side was farther away from him. "You didn't protest the first time," he pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

I clutched the glass tighter and bled harder. "Stop," I told him. "I don't want your help. Go away."

"I don't care if you want it or not," he snapped, snatching my arm before I could slip away. I thrashed, but the blood loss had made me heady on endorphins and I wasn't the most coherent. Breathy and enervated, I could barely jerk my arm around in his grasp, which was shockingly firm. "You're getting it, and it's not up to debate. Now _stop. Struggling._" Nico taped down the other gauze and reached into his pocket to pull something else out.

When I turned on my heel to run again, the dead formed into legionaries with spears crossed before me. I tried to duck around them, but they were well-controlled; with undaunted advancement, they chased me back onto the bench, where Nico sat with ethyl alcohol in hand. A pile of band aids were readied on his lap.

He held out his hand with a firm look locking on my eyes, and I shot an annoyed glower at his undead mercenaries before surrendering my right side, glass still stubbornly smarting against my palm. Nico didn't hesitate to smack it out, something I objected to with a loud cry, but then he started cleaning the cuts.

"Rhea, mother of—" I bit my tongue to keep from screaming out a string of sea-going curses, the excruciating _fire _that exploded from the little punctures and liaisons on my hand turning the world white for a moment. "Gods dammit, Nico. A little bit of warning next time."

Nico favored me with an ironic expression as he squeezed a little of the acid onto my palm. I swore vehemently in Ancient Greek. "What's the problem, Percy? I thought you liked pain."

His eyes were so fiery—like the dark pyres that reached heavenward in the smoke of the charbroiled Mount Olympus—that I recoiled with a skipped heartbeat. "I—" There was nothing I could say to that. I winced again, and Nico finished.

He shoved my hand back into my lap. "Now we talk," he said, like I was just going to unload on him.

I scoffed and surged to my feet, slapping my thighs as I did so. "Oh, yeah. I'm going to tell you _everything _after you attack me with your zombie flunkies and fucking _acid._"

"It's called a disinfectant," Nico said harshly, "and someone had to do something. No offense, but your arms are not currently your most attractive asset."

"No shit, Sherlock," I growled. "What other revelations do you have?" I turned and started storming down the street.

"I'll tell your mother."

I stopped dead. He hadn't already?

"And Annabeth. And Jason, and Piper, and Leo, and Hazel and Frank, and everyone at Camp Jupiter and Camp Half-Blood. You'll have seventeen search parties out for you in three days, tops. And I won't stop following you. _Every _time you're close to killing yourself, I can sense it just like I can sense a person with cancer or a mortal injury. And I'll listen for _you. _And whenever you go, wherever you try to hide, I will find you and I will stop you." There was a meaningful pause, and then he said, "I swear on the Styx."

The sky rumbled with his oath and I whirled on him. "What are you doing?" I threw myself at him, pushing him back. Nico flinched a little. "Do you have any idea what you just did? If I _do _outsmart you, you're dead!"

"Exactly," Nico said harshly, eyes burning with honesty. I stumbled backward in terror. "Do you really want to die with that on your conscience?"

I heaved, running my fingers through my hair in disbelief. "You—you little shit!" I almost went after him, but I couldn't. Otherwise, I'd pick up that shard again and put an end to it at last. But as I met Nico's defiant hooded eyes, I knew he was right. Like I'd known the first time I'd considered cutting that it wasn't me.

Gods, I should have listened to myself back then and just called Annabeth. Now look at me. I was an emotional wreck, all because my girlfriend broke up with me. No—that was lie. I'd been a wreck before that, Annabeth had just been the last tenuous grip I'd had to my sanity, and when she slipped away . . .

"What's happening to me?" I breathed, staggering against the lamppost and sliding down it. I buried my face in my hands. "I used to be better than this. What happened to me?"

Nico crouched in front of me. "You _are _better than this," he insisted. "And you've been through _way _more than people are supposed to in a _very _short amount of time. Extremes are usually greeted with extreme measures."

"I'm supposed to be a hero!" I cried at the cosmos. "And instead I'm a bloody disaster whose only idea of comfort is cutting up his wrists. Is this really what I've come to?" I thrust out my arms as tears streamed down my face, searching Nico's dumbfounded expression for an answer. "Is this all I am now?"

He shook his head. "Never. Percy, you _are _a hero, even if it's hard to tell right now. And I promise that I'm going to help you."

"Why?" I demanded, laughing bitterly at my own ironic turn of events. "Do you remember just after The Titan War ended? I was a _celebrity. _I had the girl of my dreams, lived the life—and then what? Amnesia? Tartarus? How many people have _died _because of me, Nico? How many people—better people—are dead because I couldn't do my _job_?If I'm such a hero, then tell me why my record is bloodier than Jack the Ripper's? If I'm such a hero, then tell me why Annabeth threw her ring in my face? If I'm such a hero, then tell me why I'm doing _this_?" I all but threw my cuts in his face before slamming my head against the poll.

Nico said nothing for a prolonged period of time, and I released a single burst of sardonic laughter, staring up at the speckled black sky overhead. My tears were trails of mercury down my face, and my sinuses were bursting with too much pressure. I pinched the bridge of my nose and winced against the headache building in my cranium, grateful for the silence—I had a feeling noise would have hurt like a bitch right then.

I took my hand away from my face and met Nico's eyes again. He had this . . . brokenness to him, like fractured glass with one too many chips. I had always known it was there, really, a sort of disharmony with the rest of the world that rooted in his heritage or something else, keeping him separate from everyone else. There had been a time when the only thing I'd wanted was for Nico to smile and be happy, to feel like he belonged with the rest of us, but that day was long gone. The only room I had left in my hollowed heart was for my own selfish pain and desire.

I looked back to my bandaged arms and felt sick. "I used to be a hero," I said again, quieter than the other times. Nico frowned. I clenched my fists, feeling the course fabric chafe on the cuts, open the newer ones up. A choked sob slipped past my parted lips. "I used to be a hero." I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face between them, shaking from the force of my pain and grief and anger. "I used to be a hero."

I had to wonder how shattered my eyes must have looked when I found Nico's one last time, my fluctuating resolve directed toward a single goal: Healing. "I want to be a hero again."

And then, for the first time in a great while, I saw Nico's face break into an expansive and sincere smile as he offered me a hand. Despite his dark attire and brooding profile, with that smile on his face, he looked like a regular teenager. Like a guy who hadn't faced down Tartarus and found giants and felt people die all around him in a grueling war.

And if Nico di Angelo could look like that—even once—what was my excuse?

I took his hand.

* * *

Nico's man cave was rather . . . lacking.

I mean, compared to some of the places I've stayed on quests (and when I was looking for Camp Jupiter while I had amnesia), it wasn't _terrible_—it had a bed, even if it was infested so badly I was pretty sure I saw the wool blanket move on its own; there was a water cooler in the corner, next to a pile of weapons, with the lid open and nothing poking out the top; and a single wooden chair that had decayed so much I wasn't sure if it was safe for a mouse to jump on it. But studio apartment it was not.

I watched Nico stroll through the doorframe—the most intact part of the dwelling, with paint peeling around the edges and the hinges mangled—and crouch down in front of the cooler, pulling out two sealed wine bottles. My heart sputtered in my chest. "Why the fuck do you have alcohol?" I demanded, Big Brother Mode coming in loud and clear.

Nico jumped out of his skin and whirled on me, eyes wide with alarm. He glanced down at the bottle in his hand and snorted. "This?" He held it up and shook his head. "Percy, Dakota gave it to me. It's Kool-Aid."

I wasn't sure that was much better. Dakota was a son of Bacchus who had a bit of a drinking problem, but Camp Jupiter wouldn't let him drink _real _wine, so he just used cherry Kool-Aid with extra sugar. The resutls were . . . hyperactive, to say the least.

Nico used his foot to flip the water cooler lid closed and sat on it, opening one bottle with his teeth with handing the other one to me. I hesitated. My ADHD could be pretty bad some days, and it was _severe _on Halloween, with all that candy. I wasn't sure Nico _wanted _me that excited.

But, still, I felt pretty mellow right then, and I could do with a bit of irrational cheer. I took the bottle from Nico with a "thank you" and popped the cork, clinking my bottle to Nico's.

* * *

_Who _could have predicted that Nico would have such a massive reaction?

For years, I'd thought Nico was immune to sugar rushes, just because his heartrate and mood was usually so chill, but I'd forgotten what kind of a perpetual powerhouse he used to be. Which, really, should have made Hyper-Nico less surprising.

It didn't.

A quarter of the way through the bottle, he was snorting at random things like rats scurrying across the ground. Halfway through, he had completely foregone sitting down and starting pacing at the speed of light, talking just as fast—so much that he reminded me a bit of the squirrel off of _Hoodwinked, _only goth with a skull ring—and flailing his hands about. The first thing I thought was: _Italian. _It was so rare that Nico revealed his heritage—the occasional Italian swear if he was really stressed, _maybe _a mannerism if he was tired, and there was the slightest hint of it on his cheekbones—and it was almost refreshing to see the boundless expression of it now.

"And what I want to know is why my father can't just put in an _extra _E-Z Death Lane. Or hire three more judges. Wouldn't that lighten up the congestion? But _no. _What does _Nico _know? He's just a little kid who got you the most recognition you've ever gotten outside of the movies, ya ungrateful little—" Nico stopped short, seeming to realize that he had been talking nonstop for half an hour. He shot me a shy smile and chuckled nervously. "Sorry. The Kool-Aid . . ."

I had given up on mine somewhere in between "And then Alecto went Dominatrix on him" ("_How _do you know what that means?") and "The next time I dream about popcorn I'm going to explode!" It was mostly full, but the effects were faint enough that tapping my heel on the ground involuntarily was enough. But still. "I get it," I told him. "Sugar and ADHD are a frightening mixture."

Nico exhaled uneasily. He seemed to be coming off his high, if by embarrassment alone. "So . . . how's life been treating you?"

I shrugged. "You pretty much know," I said. "You can keep talking if you want."

"No," Nico said firmly. "I don't." I closed my eyes at the harshness of his tone. Nico had opened up to me more than he had opened up to anyone in the last four or more years of his life, and I couldn't imagine how much that scared him. It wasn't like he'd told me intimate details—unless you count Cerberus eating his underpants—but it was a _huge _step for him. I wished I could make him feel okay with telling me that much normally, but _I _wasn't okay with it. And getting Nico drunk on Kool-Aid more often was not an option.

I shifted on the cooler—I'd stolen his spot when Nico had stood up—and thought about the least relevant thing to say. "I got a high score at that shooting game last week," I said with false enthusiasm.

Nico gave me a look.

I sighed and ran my fingers through my oily hair miserably. "What do you want me to say, Nico?" I asked, and I meant it. "That I've felt like a failure at everything I've done for the past three weeks? That I don't give a fuck about living and breathing and fighting through the next hour in Hell because haven't I already done my part? Haven't I already sweat and bled and all but _died _for you people enough? Can't I get a _moment _of release, a few seconds where I don't feel like the sky is still on my shoulders, and I'm still being crushed under its weight? Don't I get to grieve over a breakup without doing stupid, extreme stuff just to keep _living _with all this pain and suffering and—" I stopped when I started crying. "And I just killed the mood."

"It's okay," Nico said sincerely. "You needed to say it."

I threw my head back into the wall. My headache had been pounding since Nico led me here, and the impact only jarred my painful sinuses. I groaned. "Is there a particular reason I have to be such a mess?"

"You're older than me," Nico pointed out. "Why are you asking me?"

I looked back at him and laughed at the irony. "Because you've always seemed older."

Nico's face darkened. "Not always."

His dark eyes flashed with a older time—a better time—with Bianca holding his hand and the manticore threatening their lives while Thalia, Grover, Annabeth and I fought him, and The Hunter's saved us. A time when Nico could laugh at normal things, without sugar-intoxication. When he babbled endlessly about the attack points of Mythomagic cards and wore colorful clothing and was a part of Camp Half-Blood as much as I used to be.

When he was happy.

"No," I agreed, retrieving the bottle from beside me and giving it a hearty swallow. "Not always."

Nico kicked a rusty nail and it clinked against the ground as he turned and grabbed a knife from the corner. He favored it for a second before turning back to me and offering it. I paled. "Do you feel like cutting when you see this?" Nico asked seriously.

My throat was dry. The only thing on my mind was snatching it away and drawing in red all over my skin, feeling the glorious release that rushed from me through the crimson trickle, basking in the relief that coursed through my veins . . . "No. I'm not depressed right now."

"You're lying," Nico said with certainty. He tucked the knife in his belt. "So it isn't related to your emotions all the time?"

"I—What do you think you're doing?"

"Understanding," Nico deadpanned, crouching in front of me. "You're going through a lot right now, but I can't help you if I don't know _why _you cut. And I'm not entirely sure you know why, either."

You couldn't argue with that. "Nico, gods, you're making me uncomfortable."

Nico's eyes hardened. "What would you like me to do, Percy? Walk away and pretend I haven't seen what I have?"

"Actually—"

"That's not going to happen," Nico said firmly. "I said I'd help you, and I'm going to help you."

"I don't need your help!" I had no idea why I was turning angry and defensive again. Nico didn't deserve it. "I can take care of myself!"

"Yes, obviously," Nico said sarcastically. "Because cutting your own arms to shreds is the healthiest thing a person can do." His eyes were defiant and stern, their dark fire cooling to my frayed nerves. "Percy, please. I won't _force _you to talk to me, but you'll be happier if you do."

"How do you know?" I snapped. "You said it yourself. You're younger than me."

Nico looked sorrowful. "Because I've been where you're at," he admitted stoically. I had never suffered a worse slap in the face. "Not quite so bad, of course. But feeling like a failure and wanting to get out of everything? Yeah, I've been there." Nico snorted acrimonously. "Zeus, sometimes, I _am _there."

I wanted to say something poignant and reassuring, to tell Nico that he wasn't alone, that I owed him my life over and over again and he was never a failure. But the words stuck in my throat, behind the ball of shock developing there. "I should have known," I said instead, feeling the weight of guilt situate on my chest again, crushing me. "Nico, I'm—"

"Don't be," he said easily, and for the first time, his words held no deeper meaning. He really didn't blame me for what he had gone through—or for being blind to it. "Percy, back then, I'm not sure if I would have accepted any help. The part that scares me is that I don't know how much alike we are." His eyes were pleading. "So, please, don't make my mistake. I did a _lot _of stupid things before I started letting myself heal, and you've already done worse. Don't—" Nico's voice caught and he closed his eyes. "Don't push me away. Please."

When Nico sounded _that _desperate and needy, I couldn't say any variation of no. I couldn't even be silent. "I won't," I promised. "And that's a promise I _can _keep."

Nico smiled, and I resolved to see him smile like that more often.

* * *

Somehow, Nico and I had wound up sprawled on our backs in his invested bed, pointing at constellations through the sizable hole in the roof.

"Which one is the Huntress?" Nico asked me curiously. "I heard Artemis put Zoë up there when she died."

I grimaced at the nonchalance with which Nico said that—Zoë's death still hurt on a deep level, stinging with the guilt and self-loathing buried in my chest. But I pointed to the cluster of stars in the shape of legs, with a thin bow at Zoë's eternal side amidst the night sky. Tears stung my eyes. "Zoë really loved those," I remembered fondly. Despite her ability to grate on my nerves—and I on hers—I loved the Lieutenant of Artemis like any of my friends. Knowing I was responsible, at least in part, for her death would never sit well with.

Nico studied me for a long moment, and I scooted away from him nervously. "I don't get it," he said tactlessly, picking his weight up on his elbow. "When we found Melinoe—you remember, for my father's sword?—you were fine. She tried to use your ghosts to haunt you, and it didn't get to you."

I remembered it clearly. I'd seriously pissed off the goddess because she couldn't freak me out with images of people I'd lost. Meanwhile, both Nico and Thalia were frozen with the faces of their deceased mothers. "I don't know," I admitted. "I guess, back then, I hadn't been through as much. I hadn't seen as much. The deaths then—those I couldn't have really controlled. Zoë was the worst, but we weren't that close. And I had _mostly _made amends with you and Bianca, so . . ." I shrugged. "But after The Titan War, I just swept all of that under the rug. And in Tartarus, when we fought these _daimons _that inflicted curses on you if you killed them, and I found out that all these people had cursed me when they died . . . and then the River Cocytus and Acheron . . ." I stared up at the sky intently, not wanting to meet Nico's disgusted eyes. "Scott was the worst, though. It was just . . . all that blood. And the whole time, he was just _staring _at me, all that blame and contempt—"

My words ended abruptly when I felt Nico's fingers wind with mine. I looked down at the interlocked hands in surprise, and Nico shot away and off of the bed, a hasty "Sorry" sputtering from his lips.

"It's fine," I said honestly, sitting up. "I was just surprised. I thought you didn't like physical contact."

Nico ran a nervous hand through his hair and didn't face me. "I'm a little drunk," he said, like that was a fine explanation. "That's all."

"So you're a clingy drunk, but normally you send skeleton armies after people if they so much as pat you on the back?" I shook my head. "Not buying it."

"I'm not a clingy drunk." Nico grabbed his bottle of Kool-Aid and started throwing back heavy swallows again.

"I said it was fine." I kicked my legs over the side of the bed. "Why are you so flustered, anyway? By the way you're acting, I'd think you liked me."

Nico spit the Kool-Aid all over the wall. "Don't be an idiot!" he cried in astonishment, whirling on me and dropping the bottle with a piercing shattering sound. I winced, partly from the noise and the sudden temptation I had to snatch one of the sharper shards and drag it along my arm. "I-I'm straight. As—as a pole. I'm straight as a pole." He was the color of a ripe cherry.

Suddenly, it occurred to me what time period he was from. The forties couldn't have been the most understanding to the plights of gay lovers, and Nico had been birthed and raised in a time before Civil Rights had rocked the boat. It occurred to me he might have some misgivings toward homosexuals because of it. "Now hold on a minute," I said defensively, thinking of my friend, Jacelyn, who was dating Harriet from Junior Year. When she had revealed her sexual orientation to me—and her reason for turning down three date opportunities when she had confessed to wanting to go with someone to the Winter Formal—I had only congratulated her, but the others had cracked stupid jokes about lesbians and sent her crying to the bathroom. I would be damned if I let Nico act like that. "Gays aren't bad people. They love people who are their same gender, and I guess that's not particularly normal or average, but at least its _love _and since when has anybody we know been normal?" I wagged my finger at him. "I get that you came from a conservative time, Nico, but that is _no _excuse to be prejudiced."

Nico blinked dumfoundedly, openmouthed and speechless, as he stepped over the pile of glass—a few crystals cracked under his weight—only to stop short and scratch the top of his head. "Wait," he said, sounding confused. "_You _don't have a problems with . . . with gays?" He gulped at the last word.

I raised both of my eyebrows and crossed my arms. "One of my best mortal friends is a lesbian. Of _course _I don't have a problem with it. Seriously, where would I get off condemning queers when I'm half god and can talk to horses?"

Nico turned his back to me and crunched over the glass, gripping his head of hair like he was having trouble understanding something. I figured this would be a long conversation. "So you wouldn't find it weird if a guy had a crush on you?" he blurted, turning to face me with his hands out like _here it is. _

I frowned. "Well, yeah . . . I wouldn't be used to it. I mean, the only girl I _know _liked me beside Annabeth is Calypso, and _maybe _Rachel. But all of those were kind of . . . preceded, you know? They weren't left-field. I don't think I know any guys who would even _consider _me crush-able, or whatever. Why?" I thought about it. "Are you protecting somebody? Because if you are, I won't force you to say anything."

Nico's expression was stunned disbelief. Jaw slack, he said, "Seriously?"

"What?" I bristled defensively. "Look, _anybody _who has a crush on me makes me feel awkward. I'm not a hypocrite just because having a guy have those kind of feelings for me would unnerve me."

"I wasn't—You know what? If you haven't figured it out already, forget it. Let's move on."

"No, seriously. What's with the shock?"

Nico slashed the air with both hands. "I said move on, okay? Drop it. It's not important."

"Nico, you're acting _really _weird. Now what is going on?"

"You said you wouldn't pressure me to say anything!" It sounded more like an attack than a point.

I held up my hands in surrender. "Sheesh! Alright. I'm sorry. I was just worried that you had a problem with gays, and that gets me, okay? People who discriminate get on my nerves."

"I'm a freaking foreigner with a crush on my cousin! You think I discriminate?" Nico looked like he wanted to eat his words the second it was out of his mouth.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. "No way. Jason?"

Nico went from bright red to bright disbelief. He dropped his arms at his sides and gaped at me like I'd just fallen from the sky, smoking and leaving a burning hole in the ceiling. "Gee, I guess my secret is out. I would _totally _fall for the presumptuous, clingy son of Jupiter with an unhealthy fascination with making me feel 'loved.' He doesn't creep me out in the least."

I scowled. "Then Thalia? You've got my sympathy there, Nic. Huntresses are kind of the last people you'd ever want to—"

"It's you, okay!" he screamed, miming like he wanted to strangle me. "I've been in love with you since I was ten. Now can we move on with our lives? _Please_?"

Suddenly, the last five minutes made perfect sense. Nico had spit up because I'd called him, unwittingly, on his crush. He had defended his sexuality because he hadn't wanted me to suspect his affection. The shock at my lecture was because he thought I'd turn and flee at the first sign of homosexuality. And, obviously, the crush on the cousin thing.

"Oh."

Nico closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, it's been a long night for both of us. I'm a _little _buzzed from the Kool-Aid, and I'm not thinking str—right. And I _really _hadn't planned on telling you anything about . . . it. So can we please just forget this ever happened?"

Still a little taken aback—I mean, _Nico. _The grumpy, contemptuous son of Hades who had never made any secret of wanting me in the ground when he was younger. Who would have expected he could crush on _me_? Wasn't I, like, his antithesis?—I nodded and tried to think of something to change the subject with. "You broke your drink."

Nico looked down his feet, as though just registering the broken bottle. "Oops," he said belatedly, and a little miserably.

"You can finish mine," I offered.

Nico waved the offer aside. "Nah. You need it more than me. And don't even _think _about cleaning that up. I'll get it."

I had a stupid moment when I wondered why he pushed me away from the shattered crystal before I felt the urge again. I backed away, trying to look anywhere but the clinking, clicking, and clattering glass as Nico used a filthy washcloth to gather it up and toss it into the alley outside. "It's hazardous enough out there, anyway," he explained when I gave him a disapproving look. "Not like one bottle makes much of a difference."

Nico dusted his arms like he just wanted something to do, and I felt the conversation reach its inevitable expiration date. When Nico tucked his left hand in his pocket and ran his right through his shaggy black hair, I tried to think of something to say. But the well of words had dried up, and the only thing left to me was to collapse onto the soggy futon mattress dejectedly and stare out the hole in the ceiling over my head. I covered my eyes with my hand a second later and thought masochistically of Zoë, and then of the nightmare.

I felt the urge to cut worsen when I thought of my victims, gathered around the pool, each of them chanting at me. _Murderer. _I felt my chest ache from the pressure and the pounding of my heart and rolled over and off the bed. With Nico watching me, I wouldn't be able to kill the guilt suffocating me a little more with each passing minute, and that—more than anything else—made me want to cry in despair.

"Are you alright?"

I wanted to ignore Nico's question, or make something up to reassure him, but I couldn't. I just sighed and paced around the bed a little bit more. All I needed to do was cool down a little, and then I could tell him it was just the Kool-Aid hitting me belatedly. I had to calm down, and then it would be fine.

The only thing I remember, for certain, is seeing Zoë beside Bianca, Lee and Castor and Michael, Luke, Bob and Small Bob, Reyna and Scipio, and Scott. Scott standing there with blood all down his front, eyes white and unseeing, but more than that, they were staring at me, straight at me—they knew what I did in my room, they knew that I was weak, they knew I wasn't strong enough, they knew they could hurt me. They knew who I was, what I was, what I had _become, _and they held me accountable—I was guilty. I was responsible. It was me. It was all me.

The next thing I knew, my cheeks were simultaneously chilled and warmed, and my butt was pressed against something soft, and my fingers were knotted together. And Nico was sitting on my right, a firm hand on my shoulder—an anchor on my ship in the middle of the storm, something I could come back to, something I could count on being there.

I looked over at him, a hollow "Thank you" tumbling from my lips before I could think about it. Nico's eyes were one part patient, one part sympathetic, and one part pained. I realized Nico was the first person I had opened up to since . . . actually, I couldn't really remember _opening up _to someone. Brief moments of confession when there was a weight on my chest, but I had always been very obvious about my feelings. I had never held it in or bottled it up.

No one had any reason to suspect I was suffering, I realized, because I hadn't acted any different from my usual. Moments interspersed when the mask cracked, but that was to be expected. Right? Someone has to take another life, they're going to contend with aftershocks. And I still smiled and I still laughed and to the rest of the world, to anyone who had known me, I was still regular ole' Percy Jackson.

Nico di Angelo was the first person to call me on the act. He was the first person to realize _maybe _I wasn't so perfect and unaffected. He was the first person to look at my eyes and see a _man_—capable of pain and grief and guilt and imperfect everything—and not a _hero_—untouched, unmarred, incapable of any of the petty human feelings.

He saw Percy Jackson, not Perseus.

So I thought, really, when had _anyone _ever looked at me that way, since before I was claimed as a son of Poseidon? When had anyone ignored the sword and the bravado and demanded to see the truth? Never.

Didn't I want someone who could love _Percy_?

_Yes. _


	5. Part V

_***My apologies for the length of Part V. It you want it broken up, please review or PM me. Furthermore, refer to my profile for a poll on a possible conclusion to this story that has occurred to me.***_

**A Forced Hand**

_Part V_

_"We was beat when we was born, Crutchy."_

_—Francis Sullivian, Newsies_

Puzzlingly, kissing Nico was like kissing anyone else. In my experience, at the very least.

Even though the roles were reversed—i.e. Nico was the statuesque picture of shock while I was the aggressor and initiator—the prerequisites were met: It was awkward, sloppy, and one-sided enough to make me feel like a dweeb for even trying. To my credit, however, Nico didn't shove me off or object to the intimacy for a solid five seconds. As a matter of fact, he seemed to lean into it just enough to gratify me. And to reveal a lingering cherry-sweetness coating his lips from the Kool-Aid, a taste that misfired some neurons in my brain.

Nico broke contact first, and I pulled away to gauge his reaction. To summarize it as horror would be to disservice the swirl of thoughts and emotions that flashed in his dark eyes, but it wouldn't be a bad way to explain his flying leap backward to get away from me—a flying leap that resulted in a painfully loud thudding sound against the floor.

It occurred to me that I had overstepped my bounds. "Nico, I—"

"I am so sorry," he blurted, and I couldn't for a second imagine why he was apologizing to the presumably straight guy who had just spontaneously kissed him. "I wasn't thinking. I don't even remember thinking anything at all. I was just trying to be there for you, and I guess . . . I understand if you want me to go away, or don't trust me to keep my space. You were just sitting there, and I suppose—"

"Hold it," I said, raising a silencing hand and blinking in an attempt to comprehend the words blurring out of Nico's mouth. "Nico, I kissed you."

That threw a wrench in his spiel. "Excuse me?"

I rolled my eyes and rubbed my temple in exasperation. "_I _kissed _you._" I gestured at the respective individuals to illustrate my point. "I didn't mean to freak you out, man. I'm sorry that I did."

Being a regularly collected and mature individual, Nico's ability to sputter and curse like a sailor with a mouthful of seaweed drew a stifled laugh from me. "You kissed me?" he said finally, as though I hadn't made myself perfectly clear.

I groaned. "_Yes._" Shaking my head, I stood and walked over to offer Nico a hand up.

He clasped hands with me and I leaned back as he pushed off the ground. Nico staggered against the futon and scrutinized the mattress. I was about to remind him that we still had to figure out what just happened, but then he drew a shaky breath and said, "Does this mean that you—does this mean you reciprocate?" He shot an uncertain glance over his shoulder and straightened his back, like he expecting to get rejected brutally.

I was glad I wasn't.

I clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. "Yeah." I smiled with such sincerity that I felt my face actually start cracking where the tears had dried. "It means I 'reciprocate.' I like you too. If it doesn't freak you out too much, I'd like to give _us _a try."

Nico stared at my hand for a long minute without saying a word. "It doesn't freak me out," he said finally.

I laughed and stumbled when Nico assaulted me with another kiss, cool palms cupping my face. I wrapped my arms around his middle and _reciprocated_ with more enthusiasm than I had felt in weeks.

* * *

I tugged my fleece sleeves down into my fists, crushing the fabric as I stared at the _3-B _plague over my apartment door. My watch read _1:23 _and I knew my mother was in a panic trying not to call the police with a Missing Person. Facing her after an entire night of fretting was probably the most terrifying thing I had ever been expected to do.

"Don't worry," Nico said reassuringly, squeezing my elbow and nodding at the knocker. "Just remember our story. If you forget something, I'll cover for you."

I pursed my lips, raising my hand to knock—until another question bubbled over. "And we're not telling her about us, right?"

Nico chuckled. "Not yet," he reminded me. "Eventually. But I need a place to stay for the night, and you don't have a problem with me bunking in your room."

I nodded, about to knock. "But that's the truth."

Nico glared at me pointedly. "Not the _whole _truth. Now knock on the freaking door, Percy!"

I knocked on the door.

I don't know what I was expecting—my mother to telepathically know I was at the door or to have staked it out all night, maybe—but that's not what I got. I brought the knocker down on the door three deliberate, resounding times and was greeted with silence. Not even sleepy noises of alarm from inside. I waited a tense minute with no response and started to doubt my cause for anxiety. After all, Mom and Paul knew divine commissioners often dropped in unexpectedly; it wouldn't be the first time I had disappeared into the next day.

I chuckled nervously and shrugged at Nico. "I guess we can just head ins—"

There was absolutely no intermittent time between when the lock clicked and when the door opened. I didn't have the opportunity to register "Oh, my mom was waiting for my voice" before strong arms embraced me and pressed me into the silky fabric of a nightgown. I cried out before swallowing a mouthful of satin.

"Where have you been?" Mom screeched, sounding like a raging harpy as she yanked me through the doorframe and threw it closed with a resounding _bang_. I jumped and she grabbed my arms, holding me still as her eyes scoured every visible inch of me. A weak light was on overhead, and I felt immensely self-conscious under my mother's disarming glare. I could count the number of times I had seen her truly angry on one hand, but now I had to count it on two. It was stupefying.

"Mom, I—"

She threw her arms around me and hugged me close enough that I choked on her satin nightie again –an anniversary gift from Paul, if I remembered right. "It doesn't matter," she said suddenly, and despite my struggling, I couldn't break her hold. "All that matters is that you're safe." She pushed me away with ire dancing in her eyes. "But I was scared out of my mind, Perseus Jackson! I called _everyone _I could think of—Jason, Piper, Leo, Chiron, Gerald, Mindy, even Annabeth! And I don't care what you say about her not loving you anymore, because she was probably the most determined to find you next to me. I have to hope she has her phone turned on, because I have to call her so she knows you're safe and goes home. She's been searching _the entire _Upper East Side, and she was ready to head into Midtown and even farther north if she had to—"

"Mom!" I interrupted desperately. "I got attacked by a _dracaena _and beaten up pretty bad. Nico found me and helped me get cleaned up. We just lost track of time."

"Nico?" Mom echoed incredulously. "But where is he?"

I tilted my head to the side and looked pointedly at the door, suppressing a laugh at my mother's frantic lunge for the doorknob, twisting it with an embarrassed smile on her face. Sure enough, Nico stood on the other side, awkwardly toying with his skull ring and pursing his lips uncertainly. He looked up at my mother, forcing his lips up into a sincere-looking smirk.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jackson," he greeted like nothing was remotely wrong. "Can I come in?"

Mom laughed softly. "Of course." She stepped aside swiftly and motioned him through the threshold before glancing down at her dress and blushing. "Nico, if you would wait a moment. I'll just go get my robe." She shot me a dirty look on her way past; like it was my fault she forgot that she was in a see-through nightgown.

I supposed, in a way, it was. But still. I wondered if there was currently a _P _written in our calendar on the fridge.

Once she was out of earshot, vanished behind the door to her bedroom, Nico arched an eyebrow at me. "You were staring," he told me unabashedly.

"What?" I demanded, bristling.

"When your mother invited me in. You were staring. You're going to have to be a _little _more inconspicuous if you want to keep our relationship a secret."

I crossed my arms and huffed. "_You _want to keep it a secret. I _hate _lying to my parents."

"Really?" Nico puzzled, tapping his chin. "Then what's with the jacket? It _is _a little warm in here."

I clenched my fists. "That's not fair."

Nico narrowed his eyes. "Percy, if you tell her what you've been doing, I'll tell her we're dating."

"But—" One look at Nico's face, and I knew I wasn't winning this argument. His jaw was set with conviction, and his dark irises churned with challenge—if I pushed my luck too far, Nico would take out the middle man and tell my mother himself. I slumped against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest and averting my eyes in reluctant defeat. Nico laughed under his breath and pecked me on the cheek briefly, leaving me to sputter stupidly as my mother rounded the corner in a lilac robe, tying it over her stomach as she approached. I kicked off the wall with a nervous smile.

Mom arched an eyebrow at me, faltering to study me before shaking her head in amusement. "Nico, I don't know where you want to stay tonight. This is a small apartment, and we don't have a guest bedroom—"

"He can stay in my room," I interjected thoughtlessly, earning an astonished glare from Nico and frown from my mother. My blunder evident, I hastened to amend myself. "I mean, it's either that or the couch, and he's been crashing on this infested futon for days now."

Nico growled at me too quietly for Mom to hear. "That isn't necessary, Mrs. Jackson," he said in that stiff-formal tone of his. "I can sleep on the floor or couch just as well."

"Nonsense," my mother reprimanded. "You'll stay with Percy tonight. He has a king-sized, and so long as you don't mind flailing limbs smacking you in face while you're asleep, I can't see any problem with it."

To call Nico's expression "aghast" would be terribly understating the reality. His natural pallor lost even more color, like the notion of staying in my room and sleeping on my bed was unfathomable. "Mrs. Jackson, I wouldn't want to—"

"Nico, I don't pretend to know the ethics and social code of the forties, but nowadays there isn't the slightest immorality with two _boys _staying in the same room—unless you don't think you can control yourself around my son?"

Nico tensed like he'd been stuck, eyes wild with fear. I could sympathize. If you looked at Mom's eyes just right and paid certain attention to her tone, it almost sounded like she was calling us out—like she already knew what we had resolved to withhold until further notice. But even _my _mother wasn't that intuitive; there was no way she had us figured out that quickly. Nico seemed to realize this too, because he recovered with a sporting laugh. "Are you kidding? No, ma'am, there weren't any inhibitions about two boys sleeping in the same room. I just didn't understand what was acceptable now."

Mom's smile softened instantly, and she said, "Well, then there can't be any more trouble. You're a little small for Percy's clothes, I'm afraid, but I might be able to unearth something from freshman year that you could wear for bed. Give me a few minutes."

And then she disappeared into her room, conceivably to thumb through the Goodwill bags we had yet to give up. Once she was out of earshot, Nico all but collapsed to the ground with a pent-up sigh. "Percy, your mother isn't a telepath or empath, is she?" It sounded like an honest question.

I considered it for a moment. "Not that I know of," I admitted, "but she's good. Scary good. She knew Annabeth and I were dating before I even opened my mouth, and every time I've hesitated on telling her something like that, she's finished my sentence."

Nico favored me with a withering glare. "Uh-huh. So, basically, what you're telling me is your mother has the uncanny ability to know _all _of your secrets?"

"Nah," I told him. "I think she's getting rusty. Otherwise she would have already had a heart attack."

"What makes you say—? Oh, right. That." Nico looked a little embarrassed, but it vanished off his face when Mom made a triumphant noise from her bedroom.

"Nico, dear? I found Percy's old oceanfront t-shirt and pajama pants. Do you mind wearing those?"

What I would have given to have a picture of his face.

* * *

"So what are you making me watch, again?" Nico asked, shoving popcorn in his mouth as he collapsed onto the sofa the next morning. I was at the television, sliding the movie disk onto its tray and pushing the button to make it retract, snatching the DVD remote and retreating to the couch beside him.

"_The Lion King,_" I said again, chewing on my own kernel. Heavily buttered and lightly salted. Mmhm. "It's a Disney Movie."

Nico made a face at the screen as it flipped through movie previews, which I promptly skipped. "Disney?" he demanded. "I've seen those films. They're terrible."

I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. "You _obviously _have never seen the classics."

"Which are?"

"_Aladdin?_" I asked. "_Mulan? Hercules? The Hunchback of Notre Dame?_"

Nico looked even more reluctant at the last. "Seriously? Quasimodo _dies _at the end of that."

"What?" I demanded.

He nodded slowly, like I was being an idiot. "He dies killing his adoptive father. It's the worst ending, next to _Romeo and Juliet, _and that only wins because it's _really _nauseating."

I snorted. "Okay, whatever. Maybe he's supposed to, but that's not what Disney does. We're watching that next."

"And Hercules?" Nico continued. "The guy's not great, but his myth is worse."

I winced and nodded cryptically. "Again, _way _different portrayal."

Nico arched his eyebrow higher. "So, basically, the reason you like these movies is because they take the original storyline and defecate on it?"

"Now you've got the idea!" And I hit _Play._

Half the fun of watching the movie came from Nico's plethora of pitifully-masked reactions. He tried to scoff when Simba and Nala were running from the hyenas, but I could tell he was a little tense and anxious, something that dissolved when Mufasa came roaring into the picture. And when Simba found Mufasa's body and tugged on his ear, I heard a definitive sniffle Nico failed to mask as a cough; he was outright growling at Scar when he did that faux-concern voice and chased Simba out the Pridelands. By the end of the movie, he was cheering Simba on and let out a whoop of victory when Scar fell to the red-bathed plains.

At the reprise of _Circle of Life, _Nico had eaten every kernel of popcorn virtually on his own out of nervousness and had more color and life on his face than I'd ever seen before. He turned to me and blushed scarlet. "It was a pretty good movie," he admitted reluctantly.

I stole a kiss before announcing, "_Hunchback _time!" and gallivanting over to the pile of Disney movies I had reserved by the television.

Nico gaped, open-mouthed, when the end credits rolled. "Well, that wasn't anything like the original story," he said in astonishment. "Wanna watch _Hercules _now?"

* * *

I wasn't sure if Nico and I were "dating" or just calling it that to be rebels.

Sure, once in a while, I'd steal a kiss on his cheek (and even his lips, if he really wasn't paying attention) but it was rare, and most of the time, we just hung out together. Mom complained about the way popcorn seemed to vanish within a week of buying it, and I found that I preferred doing homework while introducing Nico to new media. We started with the animations—"No need to rush you," I teased, looking up from math homework when my boyfriend demanded what was with the cartoon crap. "The live action stuff can get pretty intense."—but graduated into the classic movies. Nico gaped at the television screen at the end of _Terminator _like he wanted to throw the popcorn bowel at it. He fled the room during _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy._

I laughed myself to tears when he chucked a real bone at a _Hercules: The Legendary Journey _movie and cussed it out in Italian.

For the first time since after Nico ran away when he was ten, he seemed content to hole up with my family. He was still a restless free spirit—every day, he disappeared for an inconstant amount of time, and I rarely knew what for. Some days, he'd come home in a better mood than usual, an amusing spring in his step and ready kiss for me once my mom turned around. Others, he'd phase into the shadows next to my bed with an angry scowl on his face and shredded shirt.

But he always came back.

One day, while Mom and Paul were out on one of their date nights, I stayed indoors and cooked an impromptu spaghetti dinner for Nico and me. When he materialized out of the darkness, dumping his sword on the ground with a defeated groan, I already had the classic Italian pasta waiting on the table—which was set with a lit candle in the center, thank you very much.

Nico, however, was too exhausted to notice my hard work. He fell onto the couch face-first and frankly declared, "I'm glad your parents aren't home right now, because I would be apologizing like a maniac if they were."

I laughed, tip-toed behind the sofa, and pinched his sides hard enough to make him squeal like a girl and jump upright. "Percy!" He stopped. He blinked. He looked left to right as far as his head could swivel without moving the rest of his body. And then he turned around.

Nico's jaw dropped.

I beamed self-approvingly. "Did I do a good job?"

Nico stood and stumbled over to the table like he was in a trance, staring at the plate of spaghetti in awe. Then he frowned. "Two things. First, if this is out of a box I'm going to murder you where you stand. Second, did you stereotype this?"

The latter took me aback by a little. "Wait, what? Stereotype . . . Oh! Seriously, man, the fact you're Italian never even occurred to me. I just like spaghetti, and I can cook it."

Nico's face was blank. "You can cook?"

I shrugged. "A little. I'm no All-Star Chef, but—"

"It's official. You're never getting away from me." Nico smirked playfully, and with a start I realized he was flirting.

Not one to be outdone, I sauntered ahead of him and pulled out a chair—I had to tie less-than-satisfactory cushions to our normally rough wooden chairs, so it marred the romantic dinner image a little. Nico didn't seem to mind, raising a single eyebrow and lowering himself into the seat.

I sat across from him. "I guess now we know who the girl in this relationship is."

Nico snorted. "Really? 'Cuz I thought it might have been the one who spent the afternoon on a dinner and romantic setting—and if that's supposed to be background music, I'm leaving right now."

I frowned and listened, only to recognize the tunes. "That's next door. It's an elderly woman with this obsession with Classical music."

Nico nodded in understanding, turning his attention to the plate in front of him. He chuckled. "You even serve it like my mother used to," he mused.

"What do you mean?"

"As much as one plate can hold without breaking," he said with a never-fading smirk. "And you should know this is my first date. Not that I knew it was coming anyway—I look like crap."

"You do not," I admonished, even though he kind of did. He didn't have any visible injuries, but he was dirty on the face and his clothes were ripped in places. If I dared to sniff, I could detect a hint of pure death on his clothes, which meant he'd either summoned a lot of skeletons for a fight or spent another afternoon in the Underworld. "Out of curiosity, where'd you go today?"

Nico hesitated with his fork buried in the red pasta, eyes freezing on the tablecloth. Gingerly, he set the fork down, like he was braced for my reaction. "Annabeth Iris-Messaged me."

My heart stuttered in my chest. "Why?"

"She was worried about you," he said cautiously, eyes fixed with mine. "She wanted to know if I'd seen you since you came home. You know, two weeks ago?"

I'd almost forgotten. I had prepared the dinner because it was convenient, but that it lined up with our two-week anniversary was called The Fates Temporarily Taking a Liking to You, and it was rare as the Hope Diamond. "Yeah, we haven't talked much lately."

Nico picked at the edge of the table nervously, and I could see him rehearsing what he was going to say next in his head. "I think—" He paused, before groaning in frustration. "She still loves you," he blurted, ignoring my alarm. "She's torturing herself over your breakup, and one of the things she asked me was whether or not you'd be willing to give her a second chance."

It took me more than several seconds to process that revelation, and once it had settled into a semblance of understanding within my skull, I had to struggle with comprehension—and interpreting whatever the heck look was on my boyfriend's face. "Why—? What did you tell her?"

Nico crushed my heart with the pain shining in his eyes. "That I didn't know."

I blinked, flabbergasted. "Why the heck you'd tell her that? I'm with you, Nico. You don't have to tell her that, but I'm sure as Ha—your father not going to ditch you for some inconsiderate ex who dumped me because it was inconveniencing her. You're not actually worried I'm still pining for her or anything, are you?"

Nico gulped, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. "You two were together for this ridiculous amount of time, Percy. It's not like I'm afraid you're going to cheat on me or something, but you fell into _Tartarus _for her." I flinched at the mention of the Greek Hell. "I don't even pretend to compete with that."

I rolled my eyes and reached across the table to take his hand. Nico jumped. "I would have fallen into Tartarus for anyone," I said firmly, and his eyes narrowed disbelievingly. "Don't look at me that way. You know it's true. Save for maybe Octavian"—he snorted at that—"I would have given my life for _any _of the Seven _and _you. Am I going to argue that at the time part of my motivation was because I loved her and was sick of getting separated from her? No." Nico redirected his eyes like I'd smacked him. I squeezed his hand tighter. "But we're both young, Nico. We're both hormonal kids who are pretty much slaves to our whims. I have no idea how long or well my relationship with you is going to last, if I'm honest. But _I'm over Annabeth._ You believe that, don't you?"

Nico didn't respond for a prolonged period of time, instead holding my gaze with steely expressionlessness. And then, slowly, his face broke into another smile. "Sap," he teased. "Total, complete sap. And since when do you have romantic monologues memorized?"

I laughed and released his hand, picking up my fork and twirling it in the pasta. "Hey, cherish what you get. There's probably gonna be a drought for months now."

Nico gathered up his own spaghetti, shoving it into mouth and making a delighted sound in the bottom of his throat. Judging by the blush that rose to his cheeks, it was unintentional. He swallowed down the noodles bashfully and said, "It's good."

I tried it, and, although it had cooled off a bit, had to agree. "We're going to have to eat quickly, though. If Mom gets home and sees this, there's not gonna be a heck of a lot in the way of 'stories' to convince her we're _not _dating."

Nico shrugged, already inhaling more with abandon. "Not gonna be a problem," he said incoherently through a mouthful, smiling cheekily at me before swallowing it down again.

* * *

I wasn't ready for Valentine's Day.

February 14 had never been a particularly special day for Annabeth and me—we'd missed our first opportunity, and neither of us were keen on wasting time on a single day in which to express our affections—and, truthfully, I wouldn't have bothered with Nico either. But at the start of the month, he had mentioned the holiday with a strange glint in his eyes—a glint that had all but sent me into last minute cardiac arrest.

That isn't to say I didn't know my boyfriend—after nigh two months of, albeit secretive, dating, I had a pretty good idea of what he liked and disliked. _Disney _conquered a special, irreplaceable piece of his heart, with a little room for New Age Italian rock music that I never tried to understand. Ironically, sunrises seemed to gentle him on the worst days, and he had a suspicious love for Chinese food that made me wonder if he'd been serious about that "accidental trips to China" quip back before The Battle of Manhattan. Inexplicable though it was, Nico threatened bodily harm every time someone mentioned barbeque, and an ear started steaming if someone talked about Chicago in his presence. But that didn't give me a heck of a lot to worth with in terms of a gift.

Until, one day on his way out the door for another mysterious excursion, Nico said, "I have to thank you again for giving me a place to stay, Mrs. Jackson. I'd forgotten how good it felt to have someplace like a home."

I hadn't realized the gold nugget of an opportunity there until the door was latched and Nico had already vanished to wherever he was going that day. And when it occurred to me, I wasted no time filling Mom in and plotting how to get it.

But—true to form—The Fates weren't particularly understanding to a poor boyfriend's plight, and they threw one of hardest curveballs they had ever thrown a week and a half before Valentine's Day.

* * *

_Smash!_

My heart didn't beat for three full seconds as I whirled around. It had another weak _thud _left before it stopped completely.

"He—" Nico slumped to the ground, hand clamped over her left shoulder as blood and puss oozed from a devilish gash.

I raced to his side, screaming for my mother and Paul—forgetting he wasn't home yet—like a banshee. I lifted him into my lap and patted his face. His eyes were barely open, drooping more and more by the second, and I knew he was slipping through my fingers. I looked at the injury and realized it was all over. His ribs were broken, his arm was twisted, his shoulder was stabbed like the knife had been jerked against bone incompetently, damaging the muscle and ligaments way more than it would have normally. He was littered in bruises and blood, his clothes drenched in it. I smelled booze on his clothes, and his shirt was wet like alcohol had been poured on him. His hair was slicked with a disgusting gel I couldn't name. As badly wounded as he was, trying to give him ambrosia—not that we had any in the house, gods-_damn _it!—would incinerate him from the inside-out.

"What happened?" I wailed at him, unable to see through the curtain of tears in my eyes.

Nico groaned, like my voice hurt. "I-I was at . . . the _store_." He grunted on the last word, sitting up in my arms before collapsing again. My mother arrived at the doorway with a horrified look in her eyes and screamed at Nico's bleeding form. "Cashier wanted . . . to know why I _wanted _to _buy._" I rubbed his cheek consolingly. "I _told _her . . . my _boyfriend._"

Mom gasped lightly behind her hand. "Nico . . ."

Nico lifted a weak hand and pushed something against my chest. Dumbfounded, I looked down at the most beautiful ceramic dolphin I had ever seen. Its stand was inscribed: _For the person who accepted me enough for me to accept myself. Nico. _My tears fell harder.

"These . . . guys _heard _me. _Asked _if they could _help _pay. _I _didn't _trust them. _They followed _me _and jumped me _in _daylight. My sword . . ." Nico trailed off.

My blood boiled with insatiable vengeance. I needed to take care of Nico and get him medical attention immediately, but at the same time, I wanted to hunt down the soulless, discriminating bastards who beat and stabbed him. I wanted to give _them _the same punishment I gave Akkys—slow, internal drowning as their bodily fluids defused through their organ walls and they asphyxiated on their own blood and piss and tears killed them, as they dried into a mere husk on the ground—just dust, no person.

But then Nico whimpered, and my dark fantasy evaporated. "We'll get you help. Mom, call 911."

But Mom didn't rush to the phone. "Percy, his records."

"What about them?" I demanded, ire flashing across my face as I looked up at her.

"I don't have any," Nico said, so quietly that I knew he wouldn't stay conscious much longer. I shook him gently and shushed him, the ramifications of what he said dawning on me. When the hospital requested medical history—

"But you'll die if we don't!"

"Camp," he hissed. "Camp _can _help."

"That's too far!" I looked between him and Mom as cold panic swallowed my chest. "You'll never make it."

"Then . . . it's in The Fates."

"No!" I hyperventilated, racking my brain through soul-gripping fear for some solution. The hospital would take him without question, but there was no way Chiron or anyone could generate enough Mist to disguise the fact that Nico di Angelo had died seventy years ago in a hotel with his mother and sister after the fact. It wasn't like he could shadow-travel any more; it was stupid of him to come to my apartment instead of just dropping into the middle of the Big House, but now he was done. Driving him was out of the question. A pegasus was too much movement.

That's when I got a crazy idea.

"The water," I breathed. "Jason can travel through the winds like a wind spirit, right?" I asked Nico, and he winced his agreement. "You can use the shadows. What if I can use the water?"

Nico's eyes flew open in horror and he screamed, "No!" He groaned. "Your first trip—it'd kill you."

"I have to try," I insisted. "Mom, drive me to the East River as fast as you can. I'll take it from there."

Mom looked skeptical. "Sweetie, if Nico's right—"

"I have to try!" I repeated, and Mom's expression changed. She nodded with determination and lunged at her purse.

"We'll take the elevator. Can you carry him?"

I was sobbing as I lifted Nico into my arms, staggering from his weight and lurching out of my bedroom as Mom scribbled "Nico trouble" on a piece of paper and stuck it to the door. We sprinted for the elevator as quickly as we could, and the wait for the gods-damned thing to _ding _open almost killed me, because Nico was nothing but incoherent groans and whimpers. I tried to hold him as still as possible, but it was impossible. My arms burned already from carrying him bridal style, and standing in one place was almost too much. While I was still in the war, before Tartarus had eaten at my muscle like termites at wood, I could have done this no problem. But now, it was killing me just staying upright—and it was killing Nico too.

My chest heaved from my tears and, _finally, _the damned elevator opened. I ran inside ahead of Mom, and she frantically pushed _Ground. _The doors slid closed _far _too slowly.

From there, it was a blur out the door. The security guard—a new guy I didn't care to name—stood straight up when he saw us, started to call the hospital, but my mom told him she'd already done it and it was quicker for us to drive. He nodded and let us rush to the car.

I think Mom almost caused an accident pulling away from the curb, but I didn't care. I was in the backseat with Nico across my lap, stroking his dark, gelled hair from his face and choking on my tears.

"I can't lose him. I can't lose him. I can't lose him." The unconscious mantra fell past my lips again and again, as my mother would later tell me. She would also describe the look on my face with the detail only a writer could provide.

I looked like bleached ceramic cupping an even more delicate shard of glass. My eyes were simultaneously wolfish and genteel as I whispered comforts to Nico, the very first frayed strands of insanity shining in my eyes, whose once vivacious sea green had darkened into a tortured forest shade, cracks shining through the flecks like someone had precisely tapped a glass window with a chisel in just the way to send microscopic fissures throughout without breaking it apart. My eyelashes yielded no shortage of tears, spilling down slickened cheeks onto Nico's ivory forehead to be swiped away by my thoughtless thumb.

Nico was every bit the embodiment of his last name. Still and peaceful, eyes shut lightly. If one focused on his face, and nothing but, he was the picture of purity and masculine elegance. The subtle slopes of his cheekbones led to a firm, square jaw. His lips were still a redder pink, contrasting as starkly with his skin tone as his midnight hair. Untamed, shaggy locks were slicked back off his forehead, revealing a rounded hairline. He was unmarred by wrinkles, and only one bruise peeked from his collar up the side of his neck, not quite reaching past his chin.

But the rest of him was ravaged, clothes disheveled and torn, shirt slashed across the stomach. I could see the hideous, multicolored bruises on his chest from multiple broken ribs, and my only comfort was that it hadn't punctured a vital organ. His right arm was broken in multiple places; his forefinger bent flush against the back of his hand. The others were crooked in places. One had been totally shattered. _Fag _was written in blood vertically up his neck. His left leg might have been broken too, but I wasn't sure.

"Percy." My mother's voice tore me from my daze, and I realized we were parked in front of the East River. I swallowed and opened the door. My body felt so weak, so devastated by premature grief—but I could smell the ocean on the breeze, feel it thrumming under my feet. And with my father behind me, I dragged Nico out of the car and heaved him into my arms one last time, staggering to the railing.

Mom walked with me, hand constantly on my shoulder. She leaned over the palisade, eyes turning fearful when she saw the drop. There were people on either side of us, gasping and pointing at Nico's broken body in my arms. Mom looked seriously at me. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"I have to try." My voice was destroyed by my tears and shock. It was worse than a frog's croak. It was worse than scraping metal, or nails on a chalkboard. It was worse than static. This ordeal had taken more of a toll on me than even I knew.

Mom covered her mouth, tears shining, and stepped back. Once, twice, three times. She shook her head, sobbing hysterically as she looked from me to Nico, and then back to me. And then, as if she could take no more, she spun on her heel.

I had to bend Nico over the railing while I climbed up, a delicate balance ensuing while I maintained my equilibrium and crouched down for him. But, remarkably, I succeeded in grabbing him again, this time facedown. Nico no longer murmured objections, rather eerily quiet. I had to pray there was life left in his abused body.

I closed my eyes, picturing the surf of Long Island in my mind, _feeling _the ocean there, the identity of it. Every shore was unique, and I called upon my fading memory to return me to my childhood happy place. I felt the waves churn inside my body, extended them toward Nico, gently enveloping him like a warm, comfortable blanket. For a second, I felt the ocean alive in both of us, and I gasped, almost falling before I was ready.

But I caught my breath and steadied myself, body and mind. Another few seconds to adjust, to hear people screaming at me not to jump, it wasn't worth it, they can help my friend and me—it was so distracting, their voices. I let them ebb away like a determined fly in my ear, focused on saving Nico, on my will to save Nico, on my will to get to Camp Half-Blood to save Nico, on my will to get to the Long Island Sound through the East River to get to Camp Half-Blood. I mapped out the channels in my mind, and I knew exactly how the water would carry me to camp—straight. From point A to point B. Under the island, through the ocean, using the ever-connected sea as a pathway.

Who was the guy who discovered all waterways were connected? Magellan. He had no idea _how _connected they really were.

I took a deep breath and envisioned home.

I jumped.

* * *

There was a mattress under me with a pillow cradling my head. I was in bed.

For a fleeting, hopeful second I dared to think it had all been a dream—that I had gotten home tired from school and taken a nap. Nico was perfectly healthy, probably cloaked by the shadows of my closet waiting for me to wake up. He would laugh when I opened my eyes on him and demanded a hug for confirmation and reluctantly provide, and then I would get ready for school.

But I knew it wasn't. As surely as the sun rises every morning, I couldn't have dreamed up something so horrible. I couldn't have imagined something so wretched and heartbreaking.

With that in mind, I let my eyes flutter open, dreading what view they would be greeted with.

White walls surrounded me, a soft cot cushioning my sore back muscles with my neck amply supported by multiple feather pillows. If I lifted my head slightly, I could see a cream curtain drawn between me and another section of the room, unable to hide the predatory eyes of Seymour, Mr. D's leopard head. It was then I knew I had, remarkably, made it to Camp Half-Blood.

My heart leapt into my throat, and I wondered where Nico was. I dropped my head to either side—first the left, to an empty bed, and then to the right, where white linens covered a familiar body. Freshly washed black hair fanned out on the white pillow, and Nico's once-dead pallor contained the slightest flush of life. Slowly, my unmoving chest muscle began to beat again, and I reached out to him. But I couldn't bridge the distance between our beds, and my fingers clawed at empty space helplessly.

"He's awake," a male voice said in awe. "Can you get him some water? He's dangerously dehydrated."

"I noticed." The second voice was female and undeniably familiar—so familiar that I could have named it even from the Underworld with my memory wiped in the Fields of Asphodel.

The sound of sloshing water reached my ears, and I closed my eyes again. "Can you sit up?" she asked.

Part of me wanted to play dumb, like I couldn't hear or understand her, but that would be silly and immature. So I opened my eyes and turned them on my ex-girlfriend with deadened surety. Annabeth gulped in concern and held out a clear glass of water. Thirst drove my hand toward her, but she pulled it away and shook her head. Before I could protest to the torture, she helped me sit up and pressed the rim to my lips, tilting it back slowly.

"Don't let him drink too much. His body—"

"I know how this works, Will," Annabeth snapped, pulling the glass away again. She turned to me. "Slow sips, Percy. I know you want the whole glass, but _slow sips._"

Desperate for the dryness in my throat to go away, I nodded enthusiastically. She returned the glass to me, and after a few seconds, let me take it from her. Despite her instruction, I finished it in a little under a minute.

I didn't see her grab it, but the scraping of chair legs told me Annabeth was going bedside vigil. I ignored her and turned my head the other way, toward where Nico was still asleep. I wanted to ask if he was okay, but I could barely pull my lips apart, let alone form words. Instead, I found Will with my eyes and pleaded silently for an answer.

"He's alive," he assured me, and I could have cried from relief. "A few minutes more and the internal bleeding would have killed him, but we saved him."

I closed my eyes and thought a long, hard thank you to The Fates. I resolved to sacrifice my entire next meal to them.

A warm, stabilizing hand held my shoulder down, and I glanced at Annabeth's cautious eyes. "He's alive," she confirmed, "but he isn't waking up. Nico is in a coma."

I frowned and shook my head at her. Comas meant you had to be hooked up to a defibrillator and a million other machines to keep you breathing and functioning, and none of that was around Nico. He was just resting.

"She's right, man," Will said despondently. "It's the Apollo magic keeping him alive right now. And I think he might have brain trauma."

I frowned again.

"Depending on how bad, when he does wake up, he might not be _Nico _anymore. He could have anything from mild amnesia—like forgetting silly things like the day of the week and how to read military time—to being completely non-functional."

"You mean he'll be a vegetable," I managed raspily, hating that those were the first words passing my lips in hours.

Will just looked at me sadly.

I tried to breathe, but it was getting harder and harder by the second. The very notion that Nico might never _truly _wake up—that he might be nothing more than a husk reanimated by magic and machines—was almost too much to process. Imagining him without that tell-tale look of discontent or without that sincere smile I had only just managed to coax out of him was like a hand enclosing my heart and slowly crushing it. As my lungs ceased function, I was reminded of drowning in the earth or the Cocytus, and the fear surged to the forefront of my mind.

I studied Nico's peaceful face as I struggled to inhale with more control that a shallow gasp. Once again, I reached for him—for my lifeline.

And once again, I couldn't reach him.

* * *

One day after Nico fell into a coma, Will let me go with the explicit instruction to _take it easy. _Obviously, I did the precise opposite.

It was midday at the time, meaning the Arena was teeming with ample distraction and incorrigible violence. Considering most people had already partnered with their preferred adversary, I was left with a jumping leg, sitting on an unused weapons' chest with a worried lower lip and a swooping, inconstant gaze. One of the newer demigods passed me on their way to instruction on the outskirts of the Arena and asked why I wasn't armed or wearing armor. I just smiled, patted my pocket, and told them I had a sword on my person, and you wouldn't always be wearing armor in a fight. Although they looked far from sated, they wandered away and left me to hail a triumphant Clarisse from her newest victory.

We fought somewhere upwards of ten times before dinner drew us apart, and neither cared to keep count of wins and losses—but Clarisse left with my false assurance that she had claimed the ultimate success.

I started to follow her between two pillars, knowing that if I continued training I would have some clone of my mother chasing me toward food and rest—until it occurred to me that I was completely alone.

The Arena was a ghost town, still as death and quiet as Mount Olympus in the aftermath of The Giant War. Everyone must have already left for dinner—which meant there was no one around to witness what I was about to do.

"No," I said harshly, scolding my crumpling resolve as my eyes lingered on a knife, left purposelessly on a chest like an orphan. My fingers twitched after it. "You owe it to Nico to try."

_Perhaps, _a familiar and charismatic voice mused from the dark recesses of my brain. I tensed and crushed my eyes together, feeling them burn as tears gathered at the revival of my worst enemy. _He has given quite a lot for your benefit—but then again, that hasn't gotten either of you many places, has it? He's comatose under an ineffective reanimation spell, and even if he does wake up, he won't hardly be himself anymore. And to think—he would have simply fallen asleep and gone to Elysium if you hadn't swooped in and been a hero. _

My entire body trembled and I took an ungraceful stumble forward, lurching to a reluctant stop and shaking my head. "Nico's oath—"

_—seems rather unfair now, doesn't it? Now that he's bound to life by your petty selfishness and so-called "loyalty," freeing him from this perpetual stasis by killing yourself doesn't seem quite so ignoble, now does it? _

I sunk to my knees as Riptide slipped through my limp fingertips, instead lunging at the glowing knife atop the chest. My heart pounded with feverish desperation, my lungs begged for more air than I could give them, and my cranium throbbed with the roar of blood between my ears—guilt invaded my every pore until it was the only real emotion left to me. Stripped of morality and company, bereft of the steadying presence of the one person who had _seen _my pain—I couldn't take it anymore. I needed some vague semblance of relief, and I knew just how to get it.

_Slash_.

I watched as blood gathered along the laceration, thickening with each beat of my weighted heart. The burn was instantaneous, spreading from the singularly bleeding gash like a drop of water on a napkin—webbing its way through my veins, catching on my nerve-endings and sparking against them with the proof of life called _pain_—and I let my eyes droop until they were half-lidded, slow, calculated breathing expanding my chest before deflating it, and my lungs tingled with satisfaction.

_Slash. _

I dragged the knife along my flesh through the haze of intoxication overwhelming my senses. But instead of dulling my perceptions, it sharpened them—the metallic stench of blood, the tartness in the sweetness of the air, the music in the breeze. My heart thumped easier without the weight of guilt to slow it, and my breath came unhindered.

_Slash. _

I relished the warm pain that enveloped me, lips moving in a soundless prayer to The Fates that my death would be like this—intense, brilliant, and euphoric. A morbid part of me wondered if cutting was like conditioning, so that when Death really did come, you wouldn't be screaming about how much it hurt. I chuckled quietly and shook my head, relaxing my arm onto the wooden chest with a contented sigh and fluttering my eyes open. But no sooner had I seen the darkness all around me than the desperation returned.

_Slash. Slash. Slash. Slash. _

I hacked at my arm like a madman, panic driving my hand more than pleasure. I couldn't let reality catch up with me. I couldn't let it crush me. I had to stay strong—for Nico, for when he woke up. And when he did, I would retire the knife once and for all. I would leave it to gather dust with an assortment of bitter, unpleasant memories I would never think about again.

After he woke up. Until then, I would lose myself in the feeling of guiltlessness and freedom. Until then, I would live by the blade. For the blade. _Because of the blade. _

_Slash. _

The eighth mark was the overdose—the world lurched like a ship in storm, and my consciousness almost fell overboard. I grabbed at it, clinging greedily to awareness as shame swelled in my chest, mental reprimands damning my lack of forethought. Even though the now healthy amounts of blood on the weapons' chest wouldn't be questioned overmuch, a lifeless demigod with suspicious cuts on his arm and a knife in his hand _would. _I couldn't afford to pass out here.

Pressing my bloody forearm against my chest, I clutched the knife tighter and staggered to my feet, clumsily sprinting toward the omega of cabins offering shelter in the distance. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the bright Mess Hall, illuminated against the darkness with glowing braziers and giddy feasters. Horror gripped me when I realized how long it had been, and how soon they would be migrating to the amphitheater, and then to bed.

I had to hurry.

I fell more than once in my haste, crumpling from a mixture of lightheadedness and panic, but maddened crawls off the ground barely slowed me down. I thanked Olympus that no one had chosen tonight to be reclusive, because getting caught with my arm this bloody and my eyes this glassy would have been undoing.

I lunged at my cabin's doorknob, recognizing the sea-stone structure instinctually—but my blood-slick hands couldn't get purchase. Hyperventilating as the sounds of civilization neared, I switched hands, barely hanging onto my knife with my left hand as the cleaner right seized the handle and turned it. I pitched treacherously to the side, but deliberately overbalanced forward and past the threshold. My knees smacked against the merciless floor, and the knife clattered on the tiles deafeningly.

_Almost there, _I told myself, crawling forward so I swing the door shut and turn the lock. And then, finally, I was safe.

I leaned back onto the ground and drifted off.

* * *

Two days after Nico fell into a coma, Annabeth scared the shit out of me.

Determined knocking shocked me from a deep slumber, and I braced myself against the bloody ground with literal red hands. My only consolation was the memory that I had, indeed, locked the door before fainting.

I looked around me and saw an incriminating amount of blood drying on the floor under my arm, which was even more crimson, if that was possible. Hissed curses fell past sputtering lips as I surged onto my feet, pulling a handful of tissue to wipe away the dried blood on my arm and the ground.

I looked around frantically as someone knocked again, calling, "Percy? Are you up? You weren't at dinner, and I figured to remind you there's a meal called breakfast." It was Annabeth, jesting.

She wouldn't be so jovial if she saw me right now.

I couldn't believe my luck when I spotted a water bottle on my nightstand. I pulled a bed sheet off of one of my extra beds and poured the liquid onto it, suppressing a triumphant laugh when the remedy wiped off the blood without any further trouble. Seven clean lines of red adorned my flesh, along with a jagged one that probably would heal all wrong—but I could worry about that later.

Annabeth knocked again, and I gulped hard, shouting with faked drowsiness, "Yeah, yeah, I gotta get dressed. Hold on."

"Seriously? Have you been sleeping this whole time? It's seven thirty, Seaweed Brain!"

"Some people aren't vampires like you," I shot back with more wit than usually at my disposal fresh out of bed. I cursed my defensiveness.

Annabeth just snorted, apparently none the wiser.

I scrubbed at the floor frantically, spilling the water onto it and washing the majority of the stain away. If someone walked in, they would see it, but otherwise I was safe.

The next order of business was the fact that my entire front was covered in blood. I supposed that was what happened when you used your jacket to stem the bleeding, but there was nothing to do for that now. I stripped and tossed my bloody clothes into the corner of my closet, scrambling to throw on a long-sleeved blue polo and some cargo pants. I wrenched the shutter doors closed and composed myself with a controlled breath before rushing after the door. My eyes widened when I saw the blood on the inside doorknob, and I realized there had to be even more outside.

I pursed my lips and cracked the door, peaking my head out with a forced smile. "Good morning."

Annabeth crossed her arms disapprovingly over her _Stanford _sweatshirt, probably given to her by her father. "Good morning?" she echoed incredulously. "You don't get to 'good morning' until you explain what I just saw."

My heart stopped. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb," she said harshly, reaching into her pocket. For a moment, I thought she was calling my mother, but then she pulled out an opened letter from her pocket. She shoved it at me. "Why didn't you tell me you got accepted to NYU?"

"I—What?" I almost dropped the envelope in my surprise, pulling out the paper skeptically. But as I read the first couple lines, my jaw dropped. "I can't believe this."

Annabeth frowned. "You didn't know?" She shook her head. "Whatever. We're celebrating. C'mon!" She grabbed my left arm and tugged.

I dropped the letter and screamed, eyes flashing white from pain. "Watch it!"

Annabeth let go of my arm. "Gods, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were hurt."

"Well, I am," I snarled distastefully, and Annabeth recoiled with guilt flaring in her grey eyes. I held my arm and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. It was a long night."

Annabeth nodded sympathetically. "I'm worried too," she said. "But Will says his father's magic should heal him a lot faster and safer than mortal medicine. He should be awake by the end of the week."

I faltered. "Really?" I smiled at thought that I could have Nico back before Valentine's Day. "How is he doing now?"

Annabeth pursed her lips. "I don't know. To tell you the truth, I . . . Well, I was more worried about you."

"Me?" Anger sparked in my chest. "Nico was beaten halfway to death and is in a coma, and you're worried about _me_?"

"I'm sorry!" she screamed, tears gathering in her eyes. "Nico and I were never close. I want him to be okay, but seeing you _that _weak and broken—it was like being in Tartarus all over again. It was like being back at the Phlegethon." She covered her mouth and closed her eyes, a tear leaking from either one. "Forgive me for being more concerned about the man I'm in love with."

I felt my pupils dilate with disbelief. "In case you need reminding," I started dangerously. "_You _broke up with _me. _So if you think pulling that card is going to—"

"I'm sick of not talking!" Annabeth cried. "I'm sick of hating each other because of some idiot spat! It wasn't even really what _I _wanted! It was just my father and mother and—"

"You listened to them!" I scoffed and grabbed the doorknob in disgust. "I don't care who told you what, Annabeth. You were the one who made the decision. You get to deal with the consequences." I tried to slam the door in her face, but she stopped it with her hand.

"We used to be friends," she blurted desperately. I hesitated, not knowing where she was taking this. "Before any of the hormonal crap got involved, we were friends. I understand if you don't forgive me for what I did, but _please. _Let's go back to being friends."

"After dating for three years?" I challenged.

"Yes." Her eyes shined with resolve, and I almost caved.

"I'm not interested."

Annabeth let out a frustrated scream and threw her hands up in exasperation. "You see? This is why I can barely _stand _you! You're insufferable, stubborn, and childish."

"_I'm _stubborn? Annabeth, you freaking embody all three of those!"

"I'll go with insufferable and stubborn, but you were _definitely _the childish one."

"Yeah, well, I haven't been childish in months. Now get out of my face." I tried to close the door again, but she stopped it with her foot.

"You're _still _on about Scott?" she demanded.

I stopped cold, breath hitching and heart stopping at the mention of my murder. It was like the walls were closing in, the claustrophobia almost cowing me then and there. I shook my head in shock.

"It has been _ages _since that happened!" Annabeth continued, acting as though Scott's death was a bad argument or school scandal. "Not even the news cares anymore. He's dead, he's gone, he isn't coming back, and you killed him. Yeah, I said it. _You killed him. _You had to do it, but you killed him. You can't take it back, you can't undo it, you can't resurrect him. He's _gone. _He's in the _past. _Move on with your life and stop letting it destroy you!"

"Get out!" I wailed. Annabeth staggered at my outburst. The only thing I could see was blood, all the blood from his neck. All the blood from my arm. All the blood from the war. _All the blood. _"Get out of my cabin! Get out of my face! Get out of my _life_! I never needed you to criticize me or tell me I was an idiot. I never needed your gods-damn approval. I _hate _that fucking nickname. Just get out!" I slammed the door as hard as I could in her face, punching it after it latched.

"Percy—"

"Out!"

Her running footsteps faded from earshot, and I sunk to my knees, shaking forcefully against the door as a million emotions overwhelmed me. Anger, grief, guilt, remorse, regret, betrayal . . . _love. _I crushed my eyes together and tried to ignore the last, faint sting at the edge of it all. I tried to forget the fact that seeing Annabeth red-faced and fuming had, momentarily, made me nostalgic over a time when that would have driven our lips together and prompted a hundred apologies.

"I'm over Annabeth," I had told Nico. At the time, it was sincere and heartfelt and true—but now it was a filthy, contemptible lie. I wasn't over her. Not in the slightest.

Because the tiniest, stupidest part of me still loved her.

* * *

Three days after Nico fell into a coma, I punished myself.

The morning was awash with self-hatred, tears, and cutting. I lost count of the number of lacerations I littered over not just my forearms, but my biceps, chest, thighs, lower legs and everywhere else I could reach. I stood in the shower after everyone had cleared out for breakfast with a smuggled dagger in hand, watching the red swirl into the drain and choking on words of discontent.

"Murderer. Liar. Bastard. Asshole. Ingrate. _Monster._" I leaned on the wall and sobbed, wishing I could swallow every promise I had ever made and suffocate on it.

The water didn't reflect my face like it was supposed to. It reflected the faces of the people I had wronged: Bianca, Scott, Scott's widow, Reyna, my mother, Paul, Zoe, Luke . . . Nico. I had wanted him back so badly, but now I dreaded the day he woke up. Dreaded the look in his eyes when I told him the truth. The anger. The betrayal. The contempt.

"I'd do anything," I breathed, thinking about Nico's oath—the only thing standing between me and the Underworld. "_Anything _if it meant he was free. He shouldn't have made that promise. I'm not worth his life. I'm not worth it."

Eventually, I had to let the water take some effect on my wounds or I never would have been able to step out into the open. I dressed as quickly as I could, my trusty jacket washed since the incident in the Arena and ready for wear again. I wore long socks to cover as much of my legs as they could in case my pant legs rode up for some reason, and didn't dare to walk among people without a long-sleeved shirt under my jacket.

I walked toward the Big House like a zombie, desensitized to the friendly shouts of friends and acquaintances. At most, I raised my hand in a gesture closer to farewell than greeting and shuffled on without a smile or nod. Some people murmured as I passed, arching eyebrows and asking questions I didn't care to answer. All I wanted to do was see Nico.

A wiry brunette girl who looked every bit the archer was patting Nico's forehead with a washcloth when I lifted the drape uncertainly. I cleared my throat, pulling up my jacket collar self-consciously to hide the fresh cut on my neck, deliberately close to the artery.

The girl turned around, and I saw bright blue eyes sparkle with relief. "Hey. Are you here to see him?"

I nodded.

"Do you mind watching him for an hour or two? I'm starving to death, and I _have _to get some shooting done today or I'll go stir-crazy. I swear it won't be for long," she added, pursing her lips with hope shining on her face.

I tried to smile at her, but I couldn't contort my face the right way. Instead, I said, "Of course. Nico's an old friend."

"Thank you _so _much." She shook my hand, snatching her bow and quiver from a nearby chair and darting outside.

I picked up the washcloth and crushed it in my hand, making it juice from what little water was left to the fabric. Gently, I brushed some of Nico's dark hair away and dabbed at his brow, interlocking his clammy fingers with mine. When the fabric touched his eyelid by accident, he didn't even flinch.

"Hiya, Nikki," I teased softly, the twisted pain of suppressed tears clawing at my chest. "I, uh, I was thinking about what to get you for Valentine's. I know you dropped the hint the other day, and I didn't want—didn't want to screw _us _up. But I guess I did anyway."

I gnawed on my lower lip until it was raw, wanting to delay the confession as long as possible. It wasn't as if Nico would wake up because of it and leave me in a fit, but I could feel the caked filth on my skin, so thick not even blood could wash it away. I left the washcloth draped across his forehead and ran the free hand through my hair, but I couldn't bring myself to release his hand. I would probably die of old age holding his hand, if that's how long it took for him to wake up.

"I had an argument with Annabeth yesterday," I admitted apprehensively, looking at him with bashful eyes. I felt sick. "And it—it hurt, more than it should have. It hurt like I did when I still had a thing for her, back when I was a kid. It hurt like I'm still in love with her." I held Nico's hand tighter, blundering on into condolences without acknowledging his motionlessness. "I meant it when I told you I was over her, Nico. I am. I'm not going to go crawling back to her on my hands and knees when I know I have someone who isn't going to ditch me with no warning. But it isn't fair to you that I—that I still have feelings for her, and I understand completely if you want to cut your losses."

Nico didn't stir.

I inhaled deeply and held it, praying for a response—even if it was nothing more than a twitching finger or indetectable intake of breath—before sighing in defeat.

"I'll get back you on that one," I said dejectedly, lifting the washcloth again and wetting it more with my mind.

Around an hour later, Will showed up in a stint, apparently appalled that Eileen—the Apollo girl who had begged me to take over for her—would even think about passing the buck to someone else. "I'm so sorry about this, Percy," he said, dropping his bow and quiver on the same chair she had retrieved them from. "I'll make it up to you somehow. I've got Nico from here."

But one look on the peaceful face of my boyfriend, and I knew I didn't want to leave. Not even to assuage the guilt tormenting my mind with every second I sat there, holding the hand of a man I would never deserve. Nico and I had come so far from where we were.

"I want to be here when he wakes up," I said through a faint smile, imagining an ideal world where Nico gasped upright into my waiting arms. "I want to stay."

Will hesitated, tilting his head to the side like he didn't understand or hadn't heard me right. "Percy, I didn't see you at breakfast this morning. You stayed through lunch. And there are bags under your eyes. I don't think—"

"There's a bathroom and shower in here," I pointed out stiffly. "And an Apollo kid should probably drop by once or twice a day to make sure nothing's taken a turn for the worse. They can bring food." Part of me wanted to disregard food as a necessity, but I knew Will would only get more adamant about my leaving if I did. "There are beds all over the place, Will. Things are a lot more peaceful in here, too. It's easier to fall asleep."

He didn't look convinced. But then his eyes darted to Nico's hand, still determinedly clutched in mine despite the tingling numbness that had long since assailed it. Slowly, understanding spread across his face. "You two—are you two together?" His eyes carried the meaning where his words fell short.

I debated answering truthfully, remembering my deal with Nico. But Will didn't look like he was going to buy any cheap lie or explanation. I squeezed Nico's hand tighter on impulse and nodded. "A couple of months now," I admitted.

Will opened his mouth like he wanted to pry, but then he closed it and ran a hand through his hair. "Does Annabeth know?"

I shook my head. "I wouldn't have told you if you hadn't figured it out. Nico wants to keep it between the two of us, so . . ." I trailed off and let Will fill in the blanks.

He scowled, weighing his options, before sighing and holding up his hands. "All right, all right. You win. I'm sending someone in here four times a day with food and some First Aid supplies. I'll go get some clothes for you."

"Thanks, man." Will had already gathered up his things and started for the door when something occurred to me. "Oh, uh, Will?"

He turned around at the door.

"Do me a favor and get the, uh, long-sleeves?" I chewed on my lower lip nervously, not wanting to make the suspicious request and risk Will putting the pieces together. "It's freezing, even in here."

Will shrugged. "Sure. It's been a little chillier lately. I'll grab a few jackets and sweatpants, too."

I smiled in relief and gratitude, waving goodbye as he disappeared through the door.

* * *

Four days after Nico fell into a coma, I hadn't left his side for a minute.

With people visiting me at random hours of the day, I had started eating the things given to me—which was a generous bit, thanks to the magic of Camp Half-Blood plates. Breakfast had been a hearty, well-rounded heap of eggs, buttered toast, bacon, and an apple. Lunch was a bag of _Doritos _chips, which I inhaled faster than was probably healthy. The night before had actually been a night of dreamless sleep, the only interruption being The Voice, whose taunts had become so status quo I barely listened to them when I wasn't actively contemplating suicide or cutting.

Nico's fever hadn't returned yet, but I was testing his forehead for heat when the realization hit me. Since the shower the day prior, I hadn't cut—and I didn't even need Nico's reprimands and fierce glare to stop me.

_Don't flatter yourself, _The Voice sneered as a smile started to conquer the deaden expression on my face. _You're far from over the hill. _

I shook my head free of the pessimism and reached for a chip.

* * *

Five days after Nico fell into a coma, Annabeth visited him.

She didn't even try to claim it was for Nico, though. She walked straight up to me, grabbed a chair, and sat on it with purpose in her sparkling grey eyes. "I'm ready to apologize," she said. "Are you ready to accept it?"

I considered telling her no and banishing her from my sight, but it too childish to be serious about. I glanced down at Nico and leaned back in my seat, sighing in resignation. "Yeah." I licked my lips. "Yeah. And I'm sorry too. I was being an idiot."

Annabeth smirked. "Well, that's nothing new," she teased, clapping me on the back. "Doesn't excuse me, though."

I closed my eyes and pushed the chair up onto two legs, stretching mine. "Gods," I laughed under my breath. "My ADHD just doesn't quit, does it?"

Annabeth shook her head and looked at Nico, her expression morphing into one of patience and concern. "How has he been doing?"

"Okay," I said, letting the legs hit the ground hard to take his hand and squeeze it. "Just okay. If I think about him not getting worse, I can pretend him not getting better doesn't bother me."

Annabeth hummed in her throat. "Percy . . . I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I don't want Nico to get hurt when he wakes up and finds out you've been on vigil for two days, or however long he's out at that time." She frowned, glancing at the slumbering demigod apprehensively. "You know he has a crush on you, right?"

I jumped in surprise and whirled on her. "Wha—?"

"I used to think it was me," Annabeth admitted, like she couldn't believe she'd ever been that foolish. "I mean, it seemed every time you hugged or kissed me in front of Nico, he got bitter or angry or something, but that was just societal expectation talking." Annabeth blew a deflated raspberry and shrugged her shoulders like she was about to enter a fighting ring. "I realized the truth when I Iris-Messaged him about you one day. Speaking of, care to tell me what happened the day you sent your mother into a panic trying to track you down?"

After two months, the event was barely a blip in my memory. "I'd forgotten she called you," I mumbled in embarrassment, rubbing the back of my neck. "I ran crossways of a _dracanae _and Nico had to bail me out. He's been living with me as a sort of 'thanks for saving me a hundred times over' thing."

"So him crushing on you doesn't freak you out?" Annabeth scoffed like she didn't believe it. "Truthfully, I expected you to flip out."

I scowled, realizing my mistake too late to fix and rolled with it. "I've had too many people crushing on me to get surprised by it anymore."

Annabeth shrugged and stood. "You're growing up, Percy," she told me. "And you're growing wiser." She flicked me in the temple and I hissed in pain. "I'm glad you're my friend."

Then she walked out, and I smiled at her when she turned to wave goodbye. But once the door latched behind her, I couldn't help but pull back my sleeve and stare at the assortment of scars disfiguring my arm.

And I had to wonder: Was this really wise?"

* * *

Six days after Nico fell into a coma, he woke up.

I emerged from the bathroom with a vicious crink in the neck and sore lower back from falling asleep on my bedside chair the night before. I yawned from early-morning sluggishness, tilting my head back and making a noise like a sleepy lion before blinking my eyes open on the rows of bunk beds. The upright occupier of the cot in front of my chair didn't register as anything notable until I heard his voice.

"What happened?"

I crashed into a bedpan with a resonding _bang _and thanked Olympus it was empty and washed. I caught my balance on the headboard, almost toppling onto the bed before I sunk my weight and righted myself—and turned to meet Nico's demanding dark eyes with my own, shock sticking the words in my throat.

I had rehearsed how I would do this for three days while holding Nico's hand and everything, but with the opportunity finally in front of me, I couldn't speak. Instead, I stalked forward in a stupor, shaking my head in disbelief as a smile tore at the stiffened corners of my mouth. By the time I stopped in front of him, Nico was confused and worried, leaning away from me like he expected a lecture or screaming match.

"Nico?" I breathed with an uncertain laugh.

He narrowed his eyes and, slowly, nodded his head.

I threw my arms around his shoulders and held him against my chest, fighting the tears swelling behind my ribs from joy. Nico yelped like an abused squeaky toy and tried to throw himself over the side to get away from me, but I couldn't give a lesser damn about his personal space issues in that moment. I was going to hug my boyfriend after speculating on whether or not he would ever wake for a week, and Nico was _not _going to stop me with some asinine plea of claustrophobia.

"Percy," he said quietly, voice pitched a few solid octaves. "Let. Go."

I squeezed tighter for a half-second before complying, pulling away to study Nico's bright red face. His embarrassment didn't cross my mind as strange, the colorful tint to his cheeks another proof of life and alertness and consciousness. I resisted the urge to place my hand on his chest and feel it rise and fall with each breath he drew.

"Are you okay?" I fretted, scanning him from head to toe and trying to contain my excitement. "Do you feel well? You're not confused, are you?" I added, remembering Will's terrifying guess at brain damage.

Nico squinted his eyes and blinked twice like he couldn't comprehend the question. "Confused . . . Of course I'm confused! How did I get to the Big House? Why am I in bed? Where in the Underworld is my jacket? And _why _did you just hug me?"

I snorted in relief and shook my head. "You were hurt, dumbass. I brought you here to heal. And your other clothes were pretty much done for, so they found a few new ones in your cabin."

Nico looked down at his body incredulously, running an angry hand through his hair. "Hurt—how?"

I hesitated. If the only thing Nico didn't remember was the beating, maybe it was better that way. "I don't know. You just shadow-traveled to my house looking like Mrs. Dodds on a bad day and collapsed. I had to bring you here by sea."

Nico looked like he wanted to ask, but he didn't. "Okay. Okay. So . . . how long was I unconscious?"

I pursed my lips and considered my answer. "I don't think you want to know," I said after awhile. "It might freak you out."

"You just freaked me out," Nico informed me sharply, bending his knees up and shifting so he could sit without using his hands. He buried his face in his hands and groaned exasperatedly, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Alright, so I am a little mentally confused." He looked up at me. "The last thing I remember is chasing a _dracanae _through East Harlem. Now I'm here. What did I miss?"

My heart stopped. East Harlem. That's where I wandered to when I was looking for a means of suicide and Nico found me—two months ago. Before he knew anything about my depression, before I knew he liked me, before we . . .

Before we started dating.

Suddenly, the breaths I had been taking without conscious thought became harder to draw than Advanced Calculus and every heartbeat felt lethargic and deficient. I kept flashing back to my vow to stop cutting once Nico was awake and could help me again, but that didn't look like a reasonable expectation. He didn't remember any of the things we had done—living together, watching _Disney, _dating behind my parents' backs—and, if I knew anything about brain damage, he never would.

I closed my eyes and envisioned the lifeline I had been clinging to for two months, once dormant in the water, holding me still in the ocean instead of pulling me inland, now slipping through my desperate hands and smarting against the skin.

The door opened.

Nico turned to it while I stared on at the mattress hopelessly. "Nico!" Will cried exuberantly. "You're awake!"

"Yeah," Nico muttered blankly. "How long was I out?"

Will whistled. "About a week. Hey, Percy, I brought Chinese. We smuggled it in for Sequoia's birthday."

I looked up at the paper boxes painted with little Mandarin characters with chopsticks sticking out the top and stood shakily. "Actually, I think I'll grab lunch with civilization today," I told him, and Will's face twisted into confusion. "But thanks. Nico can have it—if he wants," I added, remembering that I wasn't supposed to know he liked Chinese.

I glimpsed the hungry glee that flashed across his face when Will passed the boxes to him on my way out, guiding the drape out of my way and feeling like a zombie or a ghost—something nonliving. Something lifeless. Something dead.

Will hooked my arm out of earshot of a feasting Nico and made me meet his aghast eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "The kid's been in a coma for a week. Don't you think he wants his boy—"

"He doesn't remember," I said hollowly, and Will stopped in horror. "He knows who he is, he knows about everything before two months ago."

Will blinked. "Before you two started—but you can't just walk out on him like this! We can jog his memory, or—"

"No," I said with conviction. "I won't do that to him."

Will shook his head like he couldn't understand, and he probably couldn't. "Percy, I'll bet anything he's happier since you—"

I shook my head and glanced at Nico, who was still unaware of our conversation. "I got him hurt that badly, Will," I hissed. "It was because of me."

Will still looked uncomprehending.

I screamed quietly in frustration. "It was a couple of Bible fanatics who overheard him talking about buying a present for his _boyfriend,_" I growled. "They were mortal, Will. He couldn't defend himself, and they—" Tears stopped the sentence cold and I turned away, trying not to let them past my eyelashes. I failed.

Will squeezed my shoulder. "Hang in there, man. There might be a way. Just hang in there."

I nodded insincerely and Will jogged back through the curtain, a ready laugh distracting Nico from his meal as he asked a series of questions too far away to make out clearly. I backed up toward the door, and Nico shot me a funny look before I disguised my devastation under a friendly smile and wrenched the door open, slamming it shut and fighting to stay afloat—but my lifeline was gone, and I was drowning.

And now, I wasn't entirely sure if I was willing to keep flailing my limbs to keep swimming just a little longer. Now, I felt like I was in quicksand, and the only thing to do was freeze up and let the waves take me under. Now, the only thing to do was to give in.

"Percy?"

I whirled around to face Annabeth, who had a boardgame tucked under one arm. It looked like _Clue, _and I had a moment to think: _Figures she'd bring the game I'll always lose. _But then that insulting concern sprouted on her face and it was forgotten in the tide of despair.

She reached out for me, but I leaned out of her reach. "What happened?" Her eyes widened. "My gods, is Nico—?"

I couldn't stand that gods-damned compassion a second longer. I jumped off the porch and took off for the cabins at a dead run, heart pounding and tears streaming.

_What did you expect? Sleeping Beauty? He was beaten half to death. What makes you think you're worth remembering after that type of trauma? You're not even worth remembering after a papercut._

_Looks like the social hero isn't so social anymore. Who do you have left that _doesn't _love you out of pity? Certainly not Annabeth. Your mother _has _to love you, she gave birth to you. And Paul has to make your mother happy. If you get down to it, you never had anything sincere to start with._

_You're nothing but a monster. And you know what they say about monsters? _They don't have souls. _They can't die. But the nice thing about this monster? Once he's killed, he doesn't come back. Isn't that right?_

_Look at him cry. You're attracting attention, idiot. Do you want an audience for this? Really? Cut out the blubbering! It's infuriating!_

_Poor Percy Jackson. Can't decide who he loves more—not that it matters, because he can't have either now. Can't have the amnesiac boy who saved his life. Can't have the pretty girl who loves him despite all his flaws. What can you have?_

_Be realistic. Even if they cry for a day or two, they'll be over it before the end of the week. The worst part will be the blood. Maybe if you could find a decent rope somewhere . . . _

I opened my cabin door and threw it closed behind me. I could hear Annabeth's indistinct cries, drowned out through the stone slabs of my cabin, and locked the door with trembling hands. I slid down it, burying my tear-streaked face in my knees and muttering inarticulate nothings. The most coherent words I strung together were, "I'm not worth it. I'm not worth it. I'm not worth it."

The door shook with the force of Annabeth's wailing body slam. "Percy!" she screamed desperately. "Percy, open the door! You're scaring me! Percy, _please_!" I could hear the tears in her voice—tears of pity, tears of confusion, tears of dread.

_She'll cry a lot less time if you end it, you know. There will a lot less to cry about with you gone. _

I shook my head at The Voice, but even as I denied its validity, I shoved myself onto my clumsy, staggering feet. I tried to counter that I could salvage my relationship with Nico, that I could approach _him _about my depression and my attraction, that there might be a chance of recovering these tatters. It wasn't over yet.

Until I saw an envelope sitting on my dresser, lightly dusted from unuse. My fingers stretched toward it, swooping to pick it up and break the seal. Mail call must have happened while I was taking care of Nico, I realized. There was a considerable weight in the packet, and I dreaded what it might be.

Unsteadily, I tore the seal and reached inside to pull out the cool metal of a small apartment key. I dropped it with with a clattering _clang. _Annabeth's screams faded out as I pulled out the typed letter from Paul, the curtain of tears and grief worsening my dyslexia until it was next to impossible to read.

_I know Nico is out of commission for awhile, but your mother and I are praying to Apollo and everyone else that he's on his feet and good as ever soon. Here's the house key you were wanting to give him._

_Paul_

_P.S. Your mother reminded me to tell you we approve of your relationship. What relationship, I don't know, because she smacked me when I asked. _

I crushed my eyes closed and crumpled the paper in my hands as the world filtered back into my perceptions.

"Percy! _Percy_! Open the door! Leo! Leo! Get Travis or someone from Cabin Eleven! _Now_! Percy, open the door! Percy, let me talk to you! Percy, _tell me what's going on_!"

I looked back at the door as it occurred to me that a child of the god of thieves could easily bypass the locking mechanism. With cold, methodical movements, I pushed my dresser in front of my door, and it screeched against the floor worse than nails on a chalkboard.

Annabeth pounded harder. "Percy! What are you doing? Don't tell me you're blocking off the door! Percy, open the door _now_! Please!"

I shook my head and flattened the paper on my dresser, tilting my head at the script when something dawned on me. Didn't people leave suicide notes before they killed themselves?

I ripped off the top section of the paper—with Paul's letter on it—and looked around for a pen.

_Idiot, _The Voice reminded me derisively.

"Percy! Travis! Travis! He's blocked off the door! Help me! Please! He won't open up!" The doorknob jingled experimentally. "Of course I tried it before! Now open the fucking door!"

I could hear the mechanism give under Travis' encouragement and hastened to draw Riptide and touch the cap to the expanded hilt. A pen shrunk back into my hand, and when I pressed it against the white paper, it wrote in gold ink.

_I'm a monster and a murderer, and the only person who thought I wasn't doesn't remember it. It's ironic that the son of Poseidon should die from drowning, but my fear wasn't really of drowning itself. Just suffocating away from everyone I cared about. Well, I'm suffocating alright, and there isn't anyone left to watch me do it._

_I love you all._

I wrote as carefully as my shaky hands would allow, and made sure to double-check my spelling as the dresser started to screech along the ground again. I glanced at the narrow crack with a smile and folded up the note on the dresser.

_What Nico doesn't remember can't hurt him, _The Voice comforted me. _There's nothing stopping you now. _

I pulled the knife from its place behind my back and breathed deeply, unzipping my jacket and rolling up my long-sleeved shirt, the numerous scars bared for the world. Slowly, relishing the feel of it throughout my body, I dragged the knife once, twice, three times, making sure to get plenty of blood from each swipe. I ran it along the vein and screamed at the unexpected intensity as blood overflowed and painted my palm red.

_You're still drowning underwater, _The Voice reminded me. _It isn't over yet. This isn't the goal. You have to finish it. _

"Percy!" It was a clamor of voices now, more people than I could count screaming for admission. Annabeth was probably the loudest. "What are you doing?"

I glanced over my shoulder and saw that they still couldn't see what I was doing. Good. They might resort to fire and lightning to get inside, unless I missed my guess at Leo's and Jason's voices. The note was jostled over the dresser and flitted to the ground, but I didn't care. They'd find it anyway.

I slit along the vein on my other wrist, feeling my vision lurch from the blood loss. My hands were slick with the crimson lubricant, and I brought it to my chest, gripping it so tightly that my knuckles would have been white if they weren't stained red. I pressed the knife against my solar plexus and took a deep breath.

"What's going on?"

I stopped when I heard the familiar voice, and my heart palpitated uncertainly.

_Hurry up! _

"We don't know!" Annabeth wailed. "He won't open the door!"

"But what—?"

"Nico!"

I shook my head and braced myself. With a deep, centering breath, I pulled the tip away just enough to gather momentum when I drove it into my heart.

"Percy!" Everyone was screaming at me, but the newest addition hurt the most. I ignored it best I could, and psyched myself up for the thrust.

"I love you," I breathed at last, lifting the knife above my head and bringing it down with all the force my weakened body could muster.

The last thought that ran through my head before the explosion of white was: _Which one? _


End file.
